Reveries and Ramifications
by mak324
Summary: Buffy's been dreaming about Spike. A lot. And as the dreams get more frequent, and more real, so does the unexplainable connection she's been feeling with the bleached vampire. Spike's noticed that there's something a little off with the Slayer...but maybe something's a little off with him, too.
1. Chapter 1

I storm into Spike's crypt, rage building rapidly in my chest, busting into the dim interior with one hard, booted kick to the door.

I'm greeted by the peroxided pest himself, all long and lean and glowering. The sour expression makes his cheekbones razor sharp, his jaw line more angular.

"Shoulda known it's you," he snarks, blue eyes fixing me with a cold disdain that I'm sure is mirrored on my own face. "Been nearly six hours."

I raise my eyebrows at him, posturing, anger in my chest rising like bile in the back of my throat. "Well, it would've been less if I wasn't busy cleaning up your mess."

"My mess?" A disgusted, disbelieving look passes over his face. "I just borrowed the Doc. The mess is yours, Slayer," he spits my title out like its poison. "Yours and the boy's."

That's it.

Taunting me over Riley's sickness was one thing.

Stealing the Initiative's doctor.

Attempting to get the stupid chip out.

Going for my throat.

Those were all one thing. Spike, being Spike.

But this. This. Him turning it all around on me, like it's my fault that none of his hare brained schemes ever work out. Like its Riley's fault that he almost died today because Spike was too busy trying to get his anti-serial killer handicap reversed.

So he could kill me.

For some reason, in this moment, it's the last straw.

I'm seeing red as I step toward him, moving further into the crypt. I'd told Spike last night that Riley wasn't the only one who could die.

He's about to find out how true that had been.

"I'm done." I pull the stake out of my back pocket, raising it into striking position.

Spike takes an involuntary step backwards. The look on his face gives me surge of satisfaction.

I raise my eyebrows at him, a cruel smile playing on my lips. "Spike, you're a killer. And I should've done this years ago."

Spike watches me approach him, indigo eyes gleaming, darting back and forth warily between my face and the piece of sharpened wood in my hands.

Then I see it.

The hard set of his lips as they form a thin line. The look of grudging acceptance that steals over his gaze.

Resignation.

When he speaks, his voice is low. A tense, growling whisper.

"You know what?" He raises his chin up, looking down at me. "Do it. Bloody just do it."

I pause mid-stride, fingers instinctively curling tighter around the stake. My hand falters just slightly as I blink up at him, stunned.

Do it?

Furrowing my brow, I ask, "What?"

"End my torment," he breathes, azure eyes narrowed as they search mine. "Seeing you every day, everywhere I go, every time I turn around. Take me out of a world that has you in it." He yanks the silky black button down off, letting it fall to the ground in a puddle at his feet. Bare chested, he gazes back at me, eyes wild, lungs heaving in and out with unneeded air. "Just kill me."

I pause for maybe half a second before I take the final step toward him, arm raised high again, stake poised to strike.

But I freeze.

I can't move. I can't bring the stake down. I can't get the wood any closer to his heart than I already have. My eyes go wide as I stare into his face, the realization hitting me like a sucker punch to the gut.

I can't do it.

After all these years, all the times he's tried to kill me, how much of a giant pain in my ass he's been…I can't do it.

I don't have time to think about why, what it could mean.

Spike wraps two strong hands around my upper arms and drags me toward him, capturing my lips with such bruising force that it takes my breath away.

My immediate instinct is to shove him away from me. Punch him the nose. Drive the stake into his heart and watch him disintegrate into a million dusty pieces.

I don't. I don't do any of these things.

I let the stake fall from my hand, dropping to the ground at my feet.

And I kiss him back.

Passionately.

I respond to his kisses, my hands falling to his hips, momentarily taken in by him. The suppleness of his lips over mine, the soft, cool skin beneath my fingers, the scent that surrounds me that is so undeniably him. So deliciously Spike.

Spike.

Oh, God.

Breaking the kiss with a wild, repulsed gasp, I stumble away from him. My hand flies to my mouth as I stare into his face, feeling at once completely shocked and disgusted. Both with him, and with myself.

And I'm more than a little confused. My body's buzzing, calling out to him. My lips tingle where his had covered them only seconds ago. My skin burns where he's touched it.

He's looking back at me with the same wild, confused expression I know he sees on my face.

This is wrong. Big, big wrong. Elephant sized wrong.

This is Spike. Slayer of Slayers. The same pain in the ass vamp who came to Sunnydale three years ago with express desire to kill me. The same one that's made it his personal mission to screw up my life and the lives of the people around me every chance he gets.

So why are my lips still tingling? Why does the lingering taste of him on my tongue only make me want more?

Why am I moving back toward him?

Unthinking, moving with blind, white hot desire, I place both hands on either side of his head. My fingers glide into the soft platinum curls at the nape of his neck, and I pull his lips back to mine.

They're so soft. Gentle and surprisingly sweet as they move against mine in sweeping, deep, open mouthed kisses. There's an urgency, the kisses almost manic as our lips claim one another, hands moving everywhere, seeking and finding and possessing each other.

He tastes incredible.

Cigarette smoke and whiskey and something else, something sweet.

I press my body closer to his, molding myself to him, inhaling him as our tongues move in hurried and battling strokes.

And then, much too soon, his lips part from mine, trailing over my jaw and down my neck.

"Spike," I exhale his name on a half gasp, eyes closed, digging my fingers into his back to pull him tighter against me. He's nibbling and sucking the tender skin of my throat. "I want you."

"Buffy," he murmurs hotly against my skin. "I love you."

I can't stop the gasping moan from escaping at his words, sparks shooting down my spine, opening into tiny butterfly wings in the pit of my stomach. His lips graze my throat again as he pulls back from me, and my eyes flutter open in time to see his, dark and glazed with lust, gazing back down at me.

And oh, God, the look on his face. All the torment and the anguish and the heady, exquisite need.

For me. All for me.

It steals the air from my lungs.

"God, I love you so much."

I sit bolt upright in bed with a scream, heart pounding, echoes of Spike's huskily whispered confession ringing in my ears.

A dream. It was just a dream.

An erotic dream.

About Spike.

I groan out loud, cover my face with my hands, digging the heels of my palms into my closed eyes.

"Not real, Buffy," I whisper, trying to calm my racing heart. "Wasn't real."

But it had seemed real. Really real.

So real that even now I feel like I can taste him, alcohol and smoke, on my tongue.

I slide my hands up into my hair, burying my fingers in the sweat-slick strands just above my forehead. Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I will away the last remnants of the dream. Any second now, my lips will stop burning.

My door pops open, and mom sticks her head around the corner. Her eyes are wide, worry creasing her forehead.

"Buffy, sweetheart, is everything okay?" She takes a step into the room, leaning slightly on the door jamb. "I heard you screaming."

I'm the world's worst daughter.

"No, I'm fine, mom." I smile brightly at her. "I'm sorry I woke you."

Mom smiles at me. "You didn't wake me, honey. I can't seem to fall asleep." She shrugs, looking very tired. "Must be all the excitement from today."

I frown, immediately lifting the covers up and getting out of bed. "Speaking of which, you should be resting." I cross the room, reaching out to take one of her hands in mine. It feels clammy. "You heard what the doctors said."

"What's going on?"

It's Dawn. She's standing in the hallway just outside my bedroom, wiping the sleep from her eyes. Mom and I exchange a look, turning towards her.

"Nothing, sweetie," Mom reaches out, running her hand down a long strand of Dawn's chestnut hair. "Buffy had a bad dream."

Dawn nods, yawning widely. "Yeah, I heard her scream."

I look at my little sister sheepishly, feeling like the world's biggest . "Sorry, Dawnie."

After we'd gotten back from the hospital this afternoon, I'd volunteered to spend the night at home. Just in case anyone needed anything, or if mom started to feel bad again.

Kind of thought that everyone, including me, would feel better with the slayer sleeping in the house. Now, I've gone and woken everyone up. And why? Because I had some silly nightmare?

Because that's what it was, right? That's what it had to have been.

"Soooo everything's okay then?" Dawn asks, looking back and forth between Mom and I.

"Yep, everything's fine. Just me being Bad Dream Buffy." I smile, mimicking my mom's movement from a moment ago, running a strand of Dawn's hair through two of my fingers. "You should go back to sleep." I turn toward Mom, one eyebrow raised. "And so should you."

She gives me a sardonic smile, shaking her head. "I thought I was the parent here."

But she turns and starts padding down the hallways in the direction of her bedroom, anyway.

"You are," I say, falling in line behind her, waving Dawn back to bed with a glance over my shoulder. "And you can go back to parenting us around tomorrow, after you've gotten some rest."

We reach her open bedroom door, and she turns around to give me another serious look.

"I'll be fine, Buffy." She searches my eyes, reaching out and squeezing my hand again. "You don't have to worry."

I mock scoff.

"Worry? Who's worried?" I give her a reassuring smile, letting go of her hand. "I'm not worried."

Mom gives me a knowing look, the kind all moms seem to inherently know how to do when they know their kids are putting on a brave face. But she doesn't argue with me.

"I'll see you in the morning," she says lightly, turning to go into her bedroom. "You get some sleep, too."

"I will," I assure her, grinning as she slowly shuts the door behind her. "Right now, off to bed I go."

As soon as the door clicks shut, I race back to my bedroom and close the door behind me. I fly to my closet, digging through it until I find a basic pair of jeans and a loose fitting, long sleeved sweater. Tossing off my pajamas and replacing them with the sweater and jeans, I grab a stake out of my weapon's chest and tuck it into my waistband.

I cross the room and push open my window, feeling slightly silly for sneaking out this way again after years of being able to come and go through the front door. Still, I've already woken everyone up once. The last thing I need to do is cause mom any more stress, or keep her from getting the rest she needs.

But staying here, going back to sleep…well, that's a giant 'not' on the options list.

I've gotta get out of here.

I have an overwhelming desire to slay something.


	2. Chapter 2

I don't know how it happens.

One minute I'm walking along, minding my own business, casually staking the few fledges unlucky enough to cross my path.

And the next I'm coming to a standstill among the tombstones at the far end of the cemetery.

Of Restfield cemetery.

Directly across from Spike's crypt.

Panicked, eyes going wide, I whirl around and storm off in the opposite direction. I get a few steps away before I realize I'm actually heading deeper into the cemetery, and not back toward the main gate. I turn on my heel, exhaling a frustrated sigh, and stomp off back in the direction I've just come.

I pass Spike's crypt in a flurry, upping my speed as I go by.

As soon as I get a few yards away, I slow my speed, pull my stake out of my waistband. My adrenaline is still up, blood humming as I walk, and I can't tell if it's still from the dream or if it's just from the couple fledglings I've encountered while patrolling.

Gotta be the slaying.

I slow my walk even further, eyeing the stake in my hand, twirling it absently between two fingers. I decide I might as well do a quick sweep while I'm here.

Seems like there's always something going bump in the night these days.

As I walk, I let my thoughts drift back to Mom. I think about what the doctor's said, about what could be happening to her. Is she legitimately sick? Or could there be something else more sinister happening? It wouldn't be the strangest thing to ever happen to me.

Far from it.

And I am the Slayer. Evil doing enemies of the sinister variety are kind of part of the package.

The thought actually makes me feel better. If it's a spell, some sort of magical issues, I can fight it. If there's someone, _something_ , out there doing this to Mom…I can find them. Make them stop.

 _Make them pay._

My fist curls instinctively tighter around the stake, and I make a mental note to ask Giles about the possibility tomorrow.

 _Tomorrow._

I'll have to go see Riley tomorrow. Check in, make sure everything's running all with the smooth. He'd told me he was fine, assured me he'd be okay if I left to go see Mom. But I'd seen it. The hesitation in his face, the way his hand had lingered over mine.

Like he'd been afraid to let me go.

 _"_ _Best case scenario they turn me into Joe Normal." Riley shrugs, looking small. "Just another guy."_

 _I blink at him, brows drawing together. "And that's not enough for you?"_

 _He looks back up at me, eyes searching mine for something I don't know how to give. When he speaks, his voice is resigned._

 _"_ _It's not enough for you."_

What he'd said to me. His fears. Could he really believe that the only reason I'd have been with him over the past year was because he had…what? Some kind of super human strength? That I wouldn't be attainable otherwise?

That he couldn't _keep_ me otherwise?

 _I stare at him, eyes burning, voice coming out harsher than I planned. "Why would you say that?"_

 _Riley scoffs, half turning away from me. "Come on," he says, "your last boyfriend wasn't exactly a civilian."_

 _Angel?_

 _This whole thing is about_ Angel _?_

 _"_ _So that's what this is about?" I ask, feeling the frustration burning in my chest, fanning over my cheeks in a heated flush. "You're going to_ die _over some macho pissing contest?"_

 _Riley whirls on me, raising his voice to match the disdain in mine. "It's not about him," he yells, then his voice drops to a more even register. "It's about us. You're getting stronger every day, more powerful, and I can't touch you." He looks at me seriously, sadly, all the light gone out of his eyes. "Every day you're just a little further out of my reach."_

That's not true _, I want to scream at him. That's what's echoing through my brain, pounding in my ears. Hot tears flood my eyes but I don't let them fall._

That's not true.

 _But I don't say that._

 _"_ _You wanna touch me?" I ask instead, pointedly taking a step toward him. "I'm right here." Then, because I feel like it needs to be said, "_ I'm _not the one running away."_

 _"_ _Not yet." His gaze drops to the ground._

 _I set my jaw, the heat of anger boiling in my veins._

 _"_ _So you have this all figured out," I accuse, raising my eyebrows at him. "I'm bailing cause you're not in the super club."_

 _Riley's soft spoken rebuttal cuts me to my very core._

 _"_ _It's human nature."_

 _Does he really think so little of me?_

My eyes burn suddenly with frustrated tears, the same I'd felt earlier in the caves, and I blink rapidly to clear my vision before continuing on down the path toward Restfield's main gate.

There's a big, childish part of me that says it doesn't matter what Riley thinks. I know how much I love him. I know I'd do anything for him. I've given him every part of me, and if he feels insecure about something entirely unrelated to our relationship, it isn't my problem.

The smaller, more adult part of me whispers that if he _does_ really feel that way, then it has to be my fault. There has to be something I've done to _make_ him feel that way.

A thought occurs to me that I haven't let myself consider before now. But here, all alone in the cemetery on the heels of the strangest, most perverse dream I've ever had…I let my mind wander there.

 _"…_ _.God, you're just sitting there thinking that none of this means anything to me."_

 _He whirls to face me, cutting me off. "I never said that."_

 _"_ _Because it obviously doesn't mean anything to you." The tears threaten to spill, and I have to pause to regain my composure before continuing. There's bile rising in the back of my throat. "Do you think so little of me–"_

 _His eyes blaze. "Buffy—"_

Going to Spike for help? Granted it's only been a couple times, and only as a last resort….and usually involving several solid punches to his nose.

But could me seeking the peroxided vampire out for help be part of Riley's problem?

 _"_ _No!" I cut Riley off this time, shaking my head. "No. Do you think that I spent the last year with you because you had super powers?" The words leave my mouth in a rush, hurried, angry, before I can even think about what it is I'm saying. "If that's what I wanted then I'd be dating_ Spike _."_

And why, why the _hell,_ would I say that?

At the time, I hadn't given the comment a second thought. It hadn't seemed relevant. It had been nothing. Just an off handed statement, coming out of frustration and my general inability to think before I speak.

I've never been words girl. Action Buffy has always been more impressive.

I exhale through pursed lips, dropping down onto the top of a weather worn gravestone.

 _Let's dwell on the positive._

There's always the possibility that I'm way off base here. That my saying that, that me going in search if Spike for _very_ occasional, _always_ monetarily coerced assistance has nothing at all to do with Riley's superman identity crisis.

The thought that it isn't necessarily anything I've done or said that's caused Riley to doubt my feelings for him makes me feel a little better.

But it does nothing at all to answer the question now burning a hole in my skull.

 _Then why did I say that about dating Spike?_

 _And why am I dreaming about him?_

I groan aloud and lean my head into my hands, rubbing my temples with my index fingers.

I feel the tingles shoot down my spine a second before I smell the cigarette smoke.

Oh.

 _Fantastic._

"Well, well, well," the smooth drawl drifts to my ears, accent thickened by the cigarette I can practically imagine hanging from his mouth, "if it isn't the Slayer."

I don't respond. Don't lift my head up. I don't even stop what I'm doing, continuing to rub the aching sides of my head with my fingers.

Maybe if I ignore him he'll give up and go away.

"Out for a midnight stroll, are you?"

 _No such luck._

I try another tactic.

Ordering him.

"Go away, Spike," I murmur, voice muffled by the veil of golden hair I've let fall around my face. From this angle, I notice that my roots are starting to show.

I make another mental note to deal with this tomorrow.

"I'd love to, Slayer," Spike's saying, affecting an overly casual tone, "but see…the thing is," the sound of his boots crunching on grass and dead leaves lets me know he's taken a step closer to me, "I _like_ being out here. Such a nice night and all." He chuckles, the sound low and rumbling. "Plus, it's botherin' you, and I never get tired of that."

I sigh loudly, still not lifting my head. Why does he have to be _such_ a pain in the ass?

 _And at the worst possible times?_

"You're right," I agree, gritting it out between clenched teeth, "it's definitely bothering me."

Spike seems unfazed.

"And you're here in _my_ cemetery, after all."

I scoff. " _Your_ cemetery?" I run my fingers through my hair and push myself up to a sitting position.

Spike's standing there casually, staring down at me, his lit cigarette wedged between his index and middle finger of his left hand.

He has one scarred eyebrow raised, the other hand shoved in the pocket of his leather duster.

I note with some small satisfaction that he's clearly wearing his usual black cotton t-shirt underneath it, and not the silky looking button down shirt from my dream.

I frown.

 _Since when do I notice what Spike's_ wearing _?_

He brings the cigarette back to his lips and my gaze falls to his mouth.

It's funny, but I've never noticed his lips before.

 _For good reason_ , I remind myself.

But I notice now that the bottom one is slightly fuller than the top, set in an almost permanent pout.

 _Okay, eww._

Realizing what I'm doing, I whip my eyes back up to his before he has time to notice.

"So really," he says, ignoring my previous question, taking a long drag off the cigarette and exhaling languorously through his nose, "it's _me_ who should be asking _you_ to leave." He cocks his head to the side, smirking wickedly. "Innit."

I can hear my heart pounding, blood rushing in my ears.

This is wrong.

A world of wrong.

I can't remember the last time I've had such a visceral reaction to Spike, other than the usual mind numbing annoyance and occasional stomach churning revulsion.

This has to be some wiggy side effect of the dream. That's all it is.

 _Just a dream_ , I remind myself. _It was just a stupid dream._

Ignoring the weird sensation pooling in the pit of my stomach, I push myself to my feet and take a deliberate step toward him, trying to slow the beating of my heart before he has a chance to notice.

"I'm the slayer, Spike." I twirl the stake in my hand for emphasis, raising both eyebrows, feigning my usual confidence. "Hanging out in cemeteries? Part of the job description. If you don't like it," I pause to give him a considering look, "well…that isn't my problem, is it?"

Spike smirks at me, tongue curling up behind his top teeth. He tilts his head slightly, lashes sweeping me up and down in just that way he does.

The way that makes me feel naked.

"You know what your _problem_ is, Summers?"

I fold my arms over my chest and tilt my chin up, allowing a saccharine smile to split my face. "I'm looking at it."

My tinglies are going haywire having him this close to me, and I don't remember it ever being quite like this before.

Spike chuckles, takes another measured step toward me, coming directly in to my personal space. I watch his jaw muscle twitch, his lips purse.

He's so close I can smell the aged leather of his duster.

"Mmmhm," he purrs, tilting his chin up so that he's looking down at me, azure eyes narrowed. "You wanna know what _I_ think it is?"

I glare up at him.

I hate him. I really do.

It's all I can think right now as I stare him down.

And it's why the images catch me so off guard.

Unasked for, completely unwelcome, mental pictures from my dream tonight flood my mind's eye. His cool lips against mine, strong hands on my arms, the feel of his smooth skin underneath my fingers.

I don't know what it is. I don't know what makes me do it.

If it's his scent, all smokey and masculine. If it's the close proximity, his nearness to me so soon after having the dream. If it's my tingles, still going crazy, shooting constant little rivulets down my back.

Maybe it's a combination of all three. I don't know.

But my eyes fall to his lips again.

And I take a small step closer to him.

 _It would be so easy._

To just lean forward, close the small gap between us, press my lips against his. See if they could possibly be as soft as they were in my dream. See if he really tastes like cigarettes and alcohol and sex.

"Slayer?"

The sound of Spike's voice is like ice water, cutting through the haze, instantly brining me back to myself.

My eyes go wide as saucers, heat suffusing my cheeks. Panicking, I take a giant step back from him, and it's all over as quickly as it began.

 _Oh._

 _Oh, no._

I can think again now that there's extra space between us, and the realization of what I'd possibly, maybe, just been about to do hits me. A rolling wave of nausea flips my stomach.

 _Oh, God._

Spike's staring at me, a weird look on his face, eyebrows raised sky high.

"You feelin' alright, Slayer?" He asks, a strange edge to his voice that I don't think I've heard before.

 _This is horrifying._

I don't look at him. I can't look at him.

God, I'll be lucky if I can ever face him again.

"I-I have to go," I stammer, tucking the stake back in my waist band and tearing off in the direction of the main gate.

He says something else, yells something at my back as I tear through the gate, but I don't hear it. I run, and I don't stop running until I've reached Revello, slowing down to a walk only as my house comes into view.

I grimace, kicking myself when I notice my bedroom light is on.

And so is Mom's.


	3. Chapter 3

Since practically every light in the house is on, I decide there's no point in sneaking back up through my bedroom window.

The only reason I'd gone out that way in the first place was to avoid waking Mom, causing her any more stress.

I'm just a big, Buffy shaped stress monster.

Too bad I can't slay myself.

I open the front door to the sound of hushed voices coming from the kitchen.

I take two steps into the room and freeze.

"Riley?"

He whips around to face me, eyes wide. He's sitting down at the kitchen island across from Mom.

"Buffy." He pushes himself to a standing position, scooting the stool back as he does.

I blink at him dumbly.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, stepping further into the room.

It comes out harsher than I want it to, but I'm so thrown.

I haven't mentally prepared myself to do any Riley dealing tonight.

From over his shoulder, Mom gives me a strained look. I shake my head, backpedalling. "I mean, shouldn't you be resting?" I look back and forth between them. "Shouldn't _both_ of you be resting?"

I feel the tension starting to coil in my shoulders as I look back at Riley.

He came over here in the middle of the night?

Woke up my mom?

"I–" He cuts himself off, looks over his shoulder at Mom, then sheepishly back to me. "Well, yeah, probably. I'm sorry to just show up like this." He cups the back of his neck in his hand, looking uncomfortable. "I just…look, can we talk?"

I school my face to remain calm but I can feel my cheeks flushing in frustration.

Mom gives me another pleading look.

I let the air out of my lungs slowly.

"Yeah," I say, gesturing toward the kitchen door. "Of course. Sure."

We go out onto the back porch, and I shut the door behind us.

Things are awkward.

Not that I expected things to be all with the smooth sailing or anything.

Not after the way our conversation ended in the caves.

Not after everything he said to me.

We said to each other.

I sigh, wrapping my arms around myself. Riley shoves both hands in the pockets of his jeans.

A long moment passes before either of us speaks.

When we do, it's at the same time.

"Buffy, I—"

"Riley, look—"

We both laugh, and the tension eases the smallest bit.

"You go first." I say, rubbing my hands up and down my arms.

"Okay." He sucks in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "I really am sorry. About just showing up like this. I know you've got a lot on your mind right now." He takes a step closer to me, eyes on mine. "I just needed to see you."

I nod, offering him a small smile.

"I'm glad you're here."

He smiles back at me, looking relieved. "Good." He pulls his hands out of his pockets. "I was worried, after everything—"

I reach out and take one of his hands in mine, squeezing affectionately. "Hey," I murmur, stepping a little closer to him. "I told you. I'm not running away."

He entwines my fingers with his, looking down at our joined hands. He sighs.

"Were you on patrol?"

"Yeah." I keep my eyes fixed on his face. "I didn't mean to snap at you before," I gesture with my head back toward the kitchen, "I think I was just surprised." I brush my thumb over the back of his hand. "I thought you'd be at home—"

" _Resting_?"

He says the word like it's something pitiful, like it's something weak, and a strange look passes over his face.

I frown at him. "Well, yeah…"

He nods, pulling his hand out of mine, crossing his arms. A small, bitter smile curves his lips. "While you're out saving the world."

The way he says it feels like a slap to the face. I take a step back from him, reeling a little. I struggle for a moment with what to say, my mouth opening and closing a couple times as I look at him.

We're still on this?

He almost died today. Almost let his heart explode in his chest.

And somehow we're _still_ on this?

My arms drop heavily to my sides and re-take the step I've just taken back, moving forward, reaching out to put my hands on his arms.

"You would've been out there with me tonight if you could've been."

Even as I say it, I'm not sure I mean it.

"But that's just it, Buffy," he says seriously, his eyes burning into mine. "I couldn't be."

I feel the same helpless anger from before in the caves bubbling up, burning across my neck, flushing my cheeks.

I drop my hands and step away from him again.

I need the distance.

"You basically had surgery today." I stare up into his face, incredulous. "On your _heart_."

He drops his gaze from mine, mumbling under his breath, "Wouldn't have stopped you."

My mouth drops open.

"Yes, it _would_ have." I shake my head, eyes burning with frustrated tears. "God, Riley, I'm not a _superhero_."

He must hear something different in my voice as it breaks, because I watch the bitterness fade from his face almost instantly.

"I…" he trails off, blue eyes searching mine, raging even though his voice is quiet. "To me you are."

My heart breaks a little in my chest.

So it is me.

It's me that's made him feel this way.

 _Guess I can't blame Spike, after all._

I shove the last thought away as quickly as it arrives, blinking, trying to keep the tears in my eyes from falling.

God, I hate this.

"But I'm not," I take a step to further close the distance between us, watery eyes searching his face. "I'm just me."

 _And that's the problem._

Riley puts his hands on my arms and pulls me against him.

"I'm sorry," He murmurs into my hair. "I didn't come here to fight. I'm sorry."

"No." I wrap my arms around his waist and let my head fall against his chest. "I'm sorry."

I don't know exactly what it is I'm apologizing for.

Everything. Nothing.

Does it even matter?

"I'll be fine, Buffy." He strokes his hand down the back of my head. "I'll get over it."

I don't know if it's the truth or not.

I think he believes it, and maybe that's all that counts.

It's possible that what he thinks will always matter more than the truth.

And if that's the case, there's a very good chance our issues are barely beginning.

And is this something I'm prepared to deal with, over and over again?

Every time I go out on patrol and he can't follow?

Every time I accidentally show my strength in front of him?

Every time there's an apocalypse that need's stopping?

I squeeze my eyes shut and wrap my arms a little tighter around him.

So yeah, he might get over this.

The question is, can I?

I promise Riley that I'm not mad, that I'll see him tomorrow, that everything's going to be fine.

Then I send him home.

I tell him I just want to be alone, which is good, because it's the truth.

I don't mention it being for his own good, and I definitely don't bring up the "R" word again.

But the air feels a little clearer now, and I feel a little like a weight's been lifted off my shoulders as I kiss him goodnight and shut the front door.

Mom's sitting on the sofa when I come into the living room.

The lights are off, but I can clearly see her huddled back against the cushions, blanket over her lap, one hand wrapped around her favorite ceramic mug.

She has the other braced against her temple.

I come in and drop down next to her, angling my body towards hers.

"Still can't sleep?" I ask, leaning my head back against the sofa.

Mom smiles, but the expression is pained. She doesn't answer my question.

"It's been a long time since you've had to sneak out your window," she says gently. "Or talk in secret to your boyfriend on the back porch." She eyes me curiously. "This all on account of me?"

I sigh, sitting up straight.

"Needed to do a quick patrol." It's only a half lie. "And Riley and I got into a fight earlier. I wasn't sure how this conversation would go." I fix her with as stern a look as I can. "I didn't want to worry you."

Mom takes the hand from her head and places it in her lap. "I'm a mom, Buffy. Worrying comes with the job."

I smile. "I know that, but you have bigger things to worry about than me. Like getting better. And following the doctor's instructions." I look pointedly at the mug in her hands. "I hope that's tea in there."

"Strictly of the herbal variety," she says with a soft grin. "So, how was your 'quick' patrol?"

I shrug. "Staked a few vamps, but nothing major. It's been kind of quiet out there lately."

I frown, considering this.

I'm not sure why it hasn't crossed my mind before now.

I haven't been going out any more than normal, so what reason could there be for Sunnydale's demon population to be on the downward slope recently?

It's probably Riley.

I frown harder.

He shouldn't be going out alone, especially now.

 _And I'm sure telling him that will do loads for his self-confidence._

"That's a good thing, isn't it?" Mom's voice brings me back to our conversation.

I turn my gaze back up to hers. She's looking at me expectantly.

"Yeah," I mumble, still distracted.

My thoughts drift to the other night.

Riley getting involved on patrol. Our run in with Spike.

He'd been out there looking for a fight. Or so he'd claimed.

Had I seen a stake in his hand?

I can't remember.

Not that it matters. Even if I had, it isn't like Spike's out in the cemetery hunting other demons for the greater good.

I'd seen firsthand how pathetic he'd become last year, after the chip. Thinking he'd never harm another living thing again.

I remember how hard Xander had laughed when he'd told me about Spike trying to stake himself. It had made me laugh, too.

But the story doesn't bring even the smallest smile to my lips as I think about it now.

 _Ugh._

This dream of mine is even more wig-inducing than I thought if it's making the notion of the bleached wonder dusting himself unfunny.

Mom reaches out and puts her hand on my knee, jarring me from my thoughts.

I cover her hand with mine and smile reassuringly.

"Yeah," I say again, returning to myself, "That's a good thing."

Her smile falls a little as she studies my face.

"You look tired, honey. Have you been sleeping?"

 _Have I been sleeping?_

Sleeping.

Dreaming about my mortal enemy.

I've been doing it all.

"Oh yeah," I say dismissively, waving my hand at her, "getting my full slayer recommended thirty minutes."

She makes a face at me.

"That was a joke."

Mom cracks a tiny smile. "Very funny." She takes a long sip of her tea, lowers the mug back down. "So," she eyes me through her lashes, "how's Riley?"

 _Knew that was coming._

I exhale through pursed lips, rolling my shoulder back.

"Riley is…" I trail off, biting my lip.

Where do I even begin?

Riley is…what? Having an identity crisis? Jealous of Angel? Jealous of _Spike_? Dealing with an inferiority complex that being with me makes about a billion times worse?

I sigh, scrubbing my hands over my face, and finally force myself to smile at Mom.

"He'll get over it."

Maybe if I think it too the truth really won't matter.

I dream about Spike every night for a week.

It's always the same.

Always with the non-stakeage, always with the incredible smooching, and always ending the same way.

Me, screaming myself awake.

Consequently, I don't think Sunnydale has ever been safer from vamps as it has been lately.

Nothing shakes the pre-dream wiggins better than a few rounds of pin the stake on the vampire.

Thankfully, I don't run into a certain blonde blood sucker again on any of my double patrols.

Even so, I'm at my breaking point.

After a couple nights of waking Mom up, I'd decided to go back to my dorm room, thinking at least there I wouldn't be disturbing anyone but myself.

Literally.

But no such luck. After getting two not so nice notes from my neighbor next door _and_ a threat from our RA, I decide there's only one solution.

Bring in the big guns. Make the dreams stop.

The only problem?

Which really, is a teensy weensy problem.

Finding a way to stop the dreams requires me telling someone about the dreams.

Something I've been vigorously avoiding.

So maybe it's a big-ish problem.

But I've had very good reason to _not_ tell anyone, and little to no reason _to_ tell.

Besides the fact that the dreams are already all with the major ishiness, there's also Riley to consider. We're in a better place now than we were a week ago, but we've still only just stopped arguing nearly every time we see each other. But we can now go almost an entire evening without it, so that's something.

Granted, we've mostly just arrived at this place by choosing not to deal with our problems head on.

But the last thing either of us needs right now is a new issue to _not_ deal with.

We're barely _not_ dealing with our other issues as it is.

In spite of all this, the many, many good reasons I have to keep this stupid dream locked away where it belongs, I find myself sitting across from Willow at a small table inside The Espresso Pump on Saturday morning.

"You look awful. Have you been sleeping?"

It's the first thing she says to me.

"Gee, Will, nice to see you, too." I tilt my head to the side, sarcastic smile wide. "You're welcome for keeping you safe from vampires, which only come out at _night_."

"Alright, you made your point." Then she chuckles, wiggling her eyebrows. "Point." Pause. "Get it?"

I smile at her.

"Oh, I get it." I wrap my hands around my latte. "I live it."

Willow puts the handle of her bag over the back of her chair and turns to face me, putting her hands on her coffee mug. "So, what's the deal?"

I blink innocently at her.

"Deal? No deal." I tilt my head to the side, eyes down, toying absently with the stir stick in my coffee. "Can't a girl want to meet her best pal for a cup o' joe without there being a deal?"

I glance back up at her.

She raises a slightly surprised eyebrow at me, sipping her coffee. "So there's no deal?"

I huff, dropping my hands to the table. "Of course there's a deal."

Willow laughs.

I mock glare at her.

"Does this deal have anything to do with why you wanted to meet here instead of the Magic Box? Or my dorm room?" She takes another sip of her coffee. "Or _your_ dorm room."

I drum my fingers on the table absently.

"I didn't want to get in Giles' way," I say, truthfully. "He just opened the store, and he has his hands full enough with Anya."

Willow snorts. "Ain't _that_ the truth."

I place one hand in my lap, twirl the stir stick around with the other. I keep my eyes fixed on the foam on top, wondering exactly how best to say what it is I need to say.

"I also wanted somewhere...neutral," I say lightly, glancing up at Willow through my lashes.

"Neutral?" She repeats.

"You know, somewhere without bias." I flick my eyes down, then back up to hers. "No judgement."

She leans a little closer to me, eyes wide. "Hey, this is me we're talking about. Total no judgement zone."

I should just say it.

Just say it and get it over with.

Quick. Painless.

Like ripping off a Band-Aid.

A sticky, gross Band-Aid that-

 _Ew._

I suck in a deep breath and hold it.

 _Now._

I squeeze my eyes shut and hunch down in my seat, let the words tumble passed my lips as I exhale the air in my lungs in a whoosh.

 _"_ _I-had-a-dream-about-Spike."_

I open my eyes slowly, one by one, forcing myself to look over at Willow's face. I prepare myself for the shock I'll see there. The disgust.

The horror.

There's no horror.

I frown.

 _Where's the horror?_

Is it weird that I'm sort of disappointed?

"Did you hear what I said?" I ask, straightening back up in my seat.

Willow raises an eyebrow at me, looking dubious, but still decidedly not horrified.

"You...had a dream about Spike?"

I slump down against my seat, brow furrowing, feeling confused. "Yeah."

"Okay." She picks up her coffee, preparing to take a sip. "I don't see what the big deal is—"

 _Oh._

"A dream about _kissing_ Spike," I rephrase quickly in a tense stage whisper.

Her eyes go comically wide, and she spits the sip of coffee she's just taken back into the mug.

And there's the horror.

I feel better.

"Oh," she breathes, speechless. " _Oh_."

She sets the mug back down, staring into it. "Okay, wow."

I bite down on my lip. "Will?"

"Umm…"

I lean forward, pointing a finger at her. "You said no judgement."

Willow raises both her hands up in front of her, palms out in surrender. "Hey, wait, no. No judgement here. I just…" she trails off, shaking her head as though to clear it. "Buffy, I'm a little thrown."

I gape at her.

" _You're_ thrown?"

She doesn't respond, just continues to stare down into her coffee for a long moment. Then she leans forward, practically all the way across toward me. Frowning, I lean forward too, until our faces are very close at the center of the table.

"Was it like…" she looks around surreptitiously from side to side before whispering, "a _slayer_ dream?"

"No!" I shout quickly, so loud that both of us fly back into our seats, the people around us stopping to turn and stare. I smile sheepishly at them before directing my attention back to Willow, dropping my voice down low again. "No, no. A thousand gallons of _no_."

She takes a minute to think about what I've said before picking her coffee back up, calmly taking a sip, then setting it back down.

I watch her expectantly.

"Okay," she begins, bringing her eyes up to meet mine. "Well, if it wasn't a slayer dream, and you only had it that one time—"

I shift in my seat, drop my gaze, clear my throat awkwardly.

"What?"

I roll my eyes, digging my hands in my lap. The words come out in a rush again. "I've sort of had it every night this week."

I wince a little at Willow's whisper-yelled "Buffy!"

"Why didn't you say anything before?" She demands, leaning back over the table toward me again.

I answer her with two raised eyebrows.

"Right," she stammers, chastened. Then, "Still! This is big. Big a-and weird. Big and weird and kinda gross and what do you think it means?"

I scoff at her.

"Means?" I shake my head adamantly. "Will, it doesn't _mean_ anything."

She leans closer still, voice low. "How do you know it doesn't mean anything? Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you someth—"

My eyes blaze, finger pointing. "Stop right there."

"I'm just saying."

We sit in slightly awkward but still comfortable silence for a long moment. When I speak again, my voice is small, giving voice to a question I've considered a few times over the course of the week.

If Willow can't help me, I don't know what else to do.

"Do you think someone could be doing this to me?" I ask, shoving my half-finished latte away from me. "Making me dream about…" I raise my eyebrows meaningfully. I don't finish the sentence. Every time I say his name out loud, this whole thing gets that much more real.

Across from me, Willow frowns, eyes serious. "I don't know, Buff. Why would someone do that?"

I shrug, voice squeaking. "Because they're evil?"

"Well, okay, yeah," she concedes, tilting her head from side to side. "Still…seems kind of lame, doesn't it? Kind of harmless?"

I make a face at her.

"At this point, Will, I don't care _why_ someone would be doing it." I cross my arms in front of me on the table, edging forward, all business. "I just need it to stop. Now."

Her eyes go wide. "What do you want _me_ to do?"

"I don't know, something wicca-ish?" It's her turn to make a face at me. I sigh. "Can't you cast like...a no dreaming spell or something?"

"I could." She pushes her coffee away from her, leaning back a little in her chair. She considers this for a minute, then shakes her head. "But that could have consequences, too. We could end up making it worse."

"Worse than dreaming about Spike's lips every night?" I mumble, leaning my chin down in defeat onto my folded hands, letting my eyes fall closed.

Even as I say the words, images from my dream begin to surface. Just as they have every other time, an unwelcome thrill shoots down my spine, butterfly wings beating in my stomach. Black polished nails digging into my bare arms, pulling me into him. Lips, cool and soft against mine, trailing over my jaw, licking and nipping over my throat.

 _No_!

My eyes snap open, wide as saucers.

 _This has_ got _to end._

 _"_ _Please,_ Willow _."_ I push myself into a sitting position, voice pleading."Please. I can't ask anyone else."

She bites down on her lip, eyeing me sideways. "We could…cast a spell to see if someone _else_ has cast a spell." She looks straight on at me. "If you think that's what's going on."

I have no idea if that's what's going on, but if it'll get me rid of these dreams that much quicker...get me back to a place where I don't feel insanely guilty any time Riley touches me...

At this point, I'll try anything.

I nod quickly. "How does it work?"

Willow sighs, still looking unconvinced. "The trance will let you see if anything has a spell on it, including you." She points a finger at me, cutting me off before I can say anything. "But let the record show that I'm _still_ saying we should tell Giles."

I raise an eyebrow at her. "Still saying?"

She frowns. "Was that argument just in my head?"

"Yeah." A wry smile quirks my lips.

"Oh." She pauses. "I think we should go tell Giles."

I laugh. A real, honest to goodness laugh.

It's the first one in what feels like weeks.

"Right," I say, folding my arms over my chest. I adopt an overly bright tone and plaster on my fakest smile. "Hey Giles, I need your help to get rid of the disturbingly vivid erotic dreams I've been having for the past week. Oh, _who's_ in the dream? Funny you should ask. You know that pain in the ass vamp that got peroxide all over your favorite rug last year? The one that's tried to kill us all too many times to count? Yeah, it's him." I drop the smile and give her a sardonic look. "I can't tell Giles, Willow."

She blinks at me, then nods. "Yeah, that's about how that went in my head."

"Great." I tap the table with my palms, making both our mugs rattle slightly. "Spell to see if I'm under a spell it is, then."

She makes one last uncertain face at me, but I've already decided.

What could I possibly have to lose?


	4. Chapter 4

I hate lying to Giles.

Willow hates it more.

After talking it over, we devise a plan that will allow us to get the supplies we need, ask Giles for help and find out what the hell's causing these dreams…all without having to lie.

Well, not _exactly_ having to lie.

I decide to use the trance to check and see if there's some sort of creepy dream of thy enemy spell on me, but _also_ to check out that hunch I'd had last week about someone possibly putting a hex on Mom to make her sick.

Two birds. One stone.

I'm already feeling loads better when I go to meet Willow at the Magic Box the next morning, running through what I'm going to say to Giles in my head one more time as I pull the door open and step inside.

Giles gives me his best wary Watcher look when we tell him what we're planning.

"A trance, Buffy?" He removes his glasses, stuffs one hand in his jacket pocket. "Are you certain that's necessary?"

"Giles, it's my _mom_." I turn over my shoulder to look at him while Willow dumps some of of the supplies we need in the bag I'm holding. "If someone's out there doing something to her, I need to know who."

Giles pauses, considering me in that way he does that never fails to make me feel like I'm sixteen all over again.

I know he's just concerned about me, but could he do it a little, I don't know…less?

"And what then?" He asks, placing his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, looking up to meet my eyes. "What will you do once you've got your answer?"

I shrug, turning my body toward him. "Kill them?"

Giles isn't amused.

"Yes, that's all well and good but trances…" He trails off, folding his arms over his chest. "Buffy, are you really this concerned that it's a _spell_ that's ailing your mother?"

My shoulders sag, and I let Willow pluck the bag from my fingers and take it over to the sales counter while I think about what I want to say next.

Taking a deep breath, I step closer to him.

"The doctor's don't know what's wrong with her, Giles."

It's the truth, but I haven't allowed myself to consider it too deeply.

Right now, everything in my life feels like it's spinning out of control. With Mom, with Riley, these dreams about Spike.

Part of the reason I've latched on so strongly to the idea that it could be spells causing everything to go all wonky is because then I know what I'm up against.

Then I know what I'm doing.

"They've looked and they've looked but they still don't know," I continue, voice quiet. "And her headaches keep getting worse."

Giles stares at me for a moment before he nods thoughtfully, dropping his eyes to the ground at my feet.

"And it would be easier if—"

"If it was something I could fight," I finish for him, meaning more than just the obvious. "Yeah."

He's doing that worrying thing again. I can practically hear the wheels in his head turning.

Finally, he sighs.

"You're sure about this?"

Am I?

Am I sure I want to end these nightmares?

Am I sure I want to know what's hurting my mom?

Am I sure I want my life back?

I look up at Giles, setting my jaw.

"I'm sure."

 _This is a bad idea._

"Thanks for coming over," I say, forcing a smile, looking up at Riley from my spot on the floor. "I really appreciate the help."

 _Two tons of bad._

"Sure thing." He crouches down in front of me, forearms on his knees. "So, what do I do?"

Good question.

I stammer, trying to come up with an answer.

 _Elephant sized bad._

"Lots," I say finally. "Tons." Pause. "Lots and lots of tons. This is all kinda…"

"New terrain?" He asks me, grinning.

I'm so glad to see him smile, I can't help but smile back.

"All prayin', no slayin'."

I look around me at our supplies. "Okay, so umm…the incense needs to be ignited and, and there's a job." I pick up the bottle of sand and show it to him. "And uh, this stuff needs to get poured around me in a circle counterclockwise—"

Riley interrupts me.

"You need me to light incense and pour sand?"

His tone is light, teasing, but his eyes are shadowed.

"Magic incense," I say quickly. "A-and spooky sand." God, this was such a bad idea. "And the ritual itself is—"

He cuts me off again. "Something you do alone."

My mouth clamps shut.

He gives me an appraising look. "You sure this isn't just your way of trying to make me feel less…what were the words, cute and weak and kittenish?"

I wince, my voice small and quiet when I correct him.

"Kitteny."

He sighs, looking pained.

"Right, much manlier. Look," Riley pushes himself to his feet and walks over to my bed, sitting down on the edge. "I really am okay."

I kind of doubt it.

"I know."

I don't.

If Riley notices my hesitation, he doesn't say anything about it.

"So I'm not quite super guy anymore." He tries to look casual. "It was borrowed power anyway, had to give it back sometime."

I sigh, turning my body to face his, feeling guilty.

"I know you can handle yourself," I say, not sure if it's a lie or not. "I just didn't want to see you get hurt."

This part, at least, is true.

Riley looks at me for a moment before responding. When he does, his voice is bright, almost falsely chipper.

"Maybe instead of you trying to take care of me, we agree to take care of each other." He tilts his head. "Deal?"

I push myself to my feet, extending my hand out to him. "Done."

We smile at each other when he takes it, shaking it once.

The moment is awkward, but we both seem content to ignore it.

"Good luck," He says quietly, using my hand to me pull me to him, pressing a kiss to my forehead.

"Thanks," I say, just as softly.

Riley drops my hand and moves toward my bedroom door. Pulling it open, he turns to give me one last weak-looking smile.

"Have a nice trip," he says, and then he's gone.

I shut the door and lean against it, shoulders sagging.

Well, that little plan backfired.

I take in the mess on my floor. The upended bag, the scattered supplies.

I should probably get this over with.

The sooner I figure out that there's a spell involved, the sooner I can put these dreams behind me.

And the sooner everything will go back to normal with Riley.

I sigh, letting the air out slowly, making a sound like a horse.

And if I keep telling myself that, I'm sure it'll start to feel true.

There's nothing.

No demon form. No glowing mist.

Not even a mild shimmer.

 _Nothing._

I stare at my reflection in my bathroom mirror, wide eyed, pupils blown.

The air around me bends and shifts, lights seeming to dim and fade into shades of grey and sepia.

It's only the effect of the trance lifting whatever mystical veil might have been surrounding me.

Because there's nothing else. Nothing on me. Nothing around me.

Nothing. Nada. Zippo.

I'd done such a good job convincing myself that I'd see something that I hadn't even contemplated the possibility…

This can't be right.

Maybe I did it wrong?

I should've asked Willow to come help me. Instead, I'd tried to make Riley feel useful…and a lot of good that did me.

Okay, so this part of the spell…not working out so well. But there's still Mom to think about and—

 _Oh, no._

My eyes go wide. How long have I been standing in here?

How long do I have left?

I need to go check Mom.

I fling open the bathroom door and bump directly into Dawn.

She looks a little funny to me, distorted under the veil of the trance, and when she speaks her voice echoes eerily.

"Ow!" She rubs her head where I've accidentally bumped it. "Watch where you're going."

I don't spend any time acknowledging her, flying past her and heading straight for the stairs.

"You could at least say excuse me!" She hollers after me, but I'm already on the landing and heading through the dining room and into the kitchen.

"Mom," I call out, turning the corner. My voice echoes funnily in my head, too.

She isn't here.

Starting to panic, not knowing how long I have before the trance wears off, I turn back and head for the entryway again.

I narrowly miss bumping into her as I come around the corner.

"Buffy," she says, her mouth setting in concern when she sees me. "What's the matter, honey?"

I stare at her.

The air shifts around her, colors changing like they had before looking at my own reflection.

And just like before, there's nothing.

Giles had said it could be a hand choking her, Anya had said it could be a cloud. I don't see either of those things.

I just see Mom, staring at me like I've sprouted a second head.

"There's nothing," I say softly, almost to myself.

Mom frowns deeper. "Buffy?"

I shake my head, coming back to myself. It's only now that I register the fact that she's fully dressed, no longer wearing the bathrobe I'd grown used to seeing over the past week. I look her up and down, brow furrowing.

"You're going out?"

The grim set of her lips curves up in a smile, expression relaxing. "Either modern medicine's working, or I just took the world's best placebo. Either way, I'm going out for a couple hours." She grabs her purse off the coat rack and hoists it over her shoulder. "Are you sure you're okay?"

I force myself to smile, thoughts racing a million miles an hour. "Yeah," I lie, not wanting to worry her. "All good here."

She gives me an affectionate smile and asks me to watch Dawn, saying she'll be home soon.

I watch her leave, a smile plastered on my face.

As soon as the door shuts, it drops away.

Nothing. There's nothing.

On either of us.

How can that be?

I'd been so sure….

Or maybe I had just wanted to be sure.

Desperately wanting to pin everything wrong in my life on something, someone, that I had a possibility of fighting.

Of beating.

I jump when the phone rings, jarring me back to reality. Everything around me's still hazy, but I can kind of tell it's starting to fade.

I grab for the phone.

"Hello?"

"Buffy?" It's Willow. "Have you done the spell yet? How'd it go?"

I cast a glance up the staircase toward Dawn's room, shifting to cover the mouthpiece of the phone with my hand.

"I don't think it worked, Will," I say softly, looking back toward the front door. "I didn't see anything."

She pauses for a beat. "Nothing at all?"

"No. Not on me, or on Mom." I bite my lip, sighing into the receiver. "Could I have done it wrong?"

"Well, it's possible I guess…if you weren't feeling particular trancey, your mind could have rejected the spell." She pauses for a second. Then, "Did you check Spike?"

I freeze, frowning into the phone.

Check Spike?

"Check him for what?" I ask, "Fleas?"

"No, Buff, did you check _him_ for a spell."

I blink dumbly. "Why would I do that?"

"You said you checked yourself, and your mom. Did you think to check and see if there's a spell on Spike?"

 _Because that makes about as much sense as the rest of this does._

"A spell on Spike that makes _me_ dream about him?" I ask, sounding about as convinced as I feel.

"Okay," Willow draws the word out, "so, not the _most_ logical conclusion. But stranger things have happened. And if you really think the dreams are from a spell, you should probably check every potential—"

"Alright," I groan.

Check Spike for freaky dream spells.

This will make my night complete.

I cast another glance up the stairs and sigh. "I should probably go before the trance wears off completely. I'll let you know if I find anything."

"Okay," she says, "good luck."

Yeah.

 _I'm gonna need it._

I hang up the phone and turn toward the entryway, snatching my jacket off the coat rack and slipping it on.

"Dawn," I call up to her, flipping my hair out of the jacket's collar, "I'm going out for a bit. Will you be okay on your own?"

Dawn appears at the top of the stairs, arms crossed over her chest. She glares down at me.

"I'm not a baby," she huffs, voice and features still partially distorted to me under the trance, "I can be home alone for five minutes."

"I know you're not a baby," I exhale a sigh, rolling my eyes.

I don't have time to have this argument.

Turning toward the door, I reach my hand out and pull it open. Then pause, turning to look over my shoulder at her. "Don't break anything."

And then I'm gone, out the door, slamming it closed behind me before I can hear the whiney retort I'm sure she's tossed my way.

I wish I was an only child. It would make life so much simpler.

I make it across town and through the main gate of Restfield in under five minutes.

I stop short a few feet into the cemetery, barely catching myself from slamming directly into the leather clad form of Spike.

What is it with me and almost running into people tonight?

I'm all with the majorly uncoordinated.

I wonder dimly if it has something to do with the trance, or if I'm just that off my game after too many nights of little to no sleep.

Which brings me back to the peroxided menace in front of me, and the task at hand —determining whether or not he could possibly have a spell cast on him.

A spell that somehow makes me dream about him.

It doesn't sound any more convincing as I think through it now than it did the first time around.

Still, Willow's right. I should exhaust all my options before I determine that 'no spells were used in the making of this dream'.

Which would be a lot easier to do if Spike would quite moving around.

It's at this point that I realize he's in the middle of a fight. A pretty heated fight, from what it looks like. Between himself and two glowing green slime-covered nasties, that look an awful lot like giant Dr. Seuss characters.

At least they _look_ slimey from where I'm standing, but that could be a trick of light.

Spike yells, whooping loudly and shoves his fist straight into Thing One's face, sending a splatter of green slime across the front of my shirt.

I grimace, looking down in disgust.

 _Definitely slimey._

"Slayer," Spike addresses me, whirling around to duck a punch from Thing Two, "if you're done gawking, I could use—" he punches Thing One in the stomach and dodges yet another punch from Thing Two, "—a little help here."

There's so much wrong with this sentence, I don't know where to start.

I could probably start with the helping him part.

I don't.

"Gawking?" I ask, scoffing loudly. "I am not _gawking_."

Spike whirls around to fix me with a mocking, sardonic look. He's rewarded with a hard, slime covered punch to the face.

"Bloody hell!" He stumbles back, wipes the side of his face with the back of his hand and leaps forward again.

He glares at me and throws a left hook in the direction of Thing One.

"Isn't this _your_ bloody job?"

Oh.

Yeah.

Praying my coordination and speed haven't deserted me, I jump to his side and aim a firm roundhouse to the chest of Thing Two. It connects with a splat, sending the slimey green demon sputtering and gurgling to the ground.

I leap on top of it before it can get back to its feet, wrap my hands around it's neck and twist.

It's head comes off with a loud _pop_ , splattering my face and hands with more green goop.

"Oh, _gross_ ," I groan, dropping the head into the grass and shaking my hands in front of me.

I wipe my face with the sleeve of my jacket, turning to look back over my shoulder just in time to see Spike leap on to Thing One's back, twisting its neck in the same way I'd just done.

A small surge of satisfaction runs through me when I see him get splattered in green, too.

"Well, that was a tickle," he says, dropping down to his feet and watching the green demon drop to the ground with a thud.

I push myself to a standing position, still wiping my face with my sleeve.

"Those things aren't poisonous, are they?"

He snorts, wiping a smear of green off his cheek. "Guess we'll find out, yeah?"

I make a face at him, opening my mouth for a witty remark.

And then I notice he doesn't look weird to me. There's no more wiggy shifting air, no changing colors.

I frown, looking around the cemetery.

Everything's back to normal.

The trance has worn off.

And, I realize, I don't know anything more now than I did earlier. Not about me, not about Mom.

I put all my eggs in this one spell-shaped basket, and now I'm left with...no eggs.

"What's the matter with you?" Spike asks, digging in his pocket and pulling out a cigarette. "Look like someone just stole your pony."

I drag my eyes to his, blinking. "Huh?"

He smirks at me around the cigarette as he lights it. "Your face, Slayer." He stuffs his silver lighter back in his pocket. "Why's it so long?"

"Oh," I murmur, now consciously aware of my facial expression. I school it into something more neutral. "Nothing."

Spike nods, looking utterly unconvinced.

"You get into another fight with the soldier boy?"

I glare at him, crossing my arms over my chest.

"No," I snap. Then, a little under my breath, "Not that it's any of your business."

He chuckles, reaching up to pull the cigarette out of his mouth. "No need to get your knickers twisted, luv."

Love?

 _Love?_

I freeze. My heart stutters in my chest, heat rushing to my cheeks. The words from my dream roar in my ears, drowning out everything else.

 _"_ _Buffy, I love you."_

My head starts to spin.

 _"_ _God, I love you so much."_

I blink rapidly, as though that will wipe the onslaught of images from my mind.

"Don't call me that," I say, but there's no malice in it.

There's not enough power in my voice for there to be anything even resembling malice.

Spike tilts his head warily, brow furrowed.

"Slayer?"

There's something different in his voice, too.

 _Oh, no._

Change the subject. Change it.

Now.

"What were you even doing fighting those Seussical rejects, anyway?" I ask quickly, infusing my voice with as much disdain as I can muster.

Pretending that the last ten seconds never happened.

Spike frowns at me, opening his mouth to answer.

I put my hand up in a stopping motion before he can. "And don't tell me you were just 'lookin' for a spot o' violence'."

His mouth snaps shut in a lin line as he glares at me, blue eyes narrowed. "I don't sound like that."

Good, arguing.

We can do arguing.

I raise my eyebrows at him. The effect is somewhat ruined by the green goo I still feel caked over my forehead. "Have you heard yourself?"

Spike's expression turns sour.

He doesn't say anything for a moment, just stands there in front of me, flicking the ashes of his cigarette. When he does speak, his voice lacks its usual arrogance. "I was headin' out for a drink. The stupid blighters got in my way." He shrugs. "That's all."

He's lying.

I don't know exactly how I can tell, or why the knowledge comes so easily to me. But he's looking away from me, eyes over my shoulder, and I can just tell.

This is weird.

Weird to be standing in a cemetery _talking_ to Spike.

Weird to have just fought side by side with him.

Weird that I feel like I know him.

I mean, yeah, I know Spike. I've dealt with him enough times to generally understand what makes him tick.

This feeling though, the one I'm getting now, looking at him as he takes a drag off his cigarette…it's different.

Different than one enemy understanding another.

More nuanced, like we've been through something important that I should remember, but don't.

If I don't find someway to stop these dreams soon…

Well, I don't know what'll happen exactly, but it won't be good.

I'm still kicking myself for wasting the opportunity with the trance. And why? So I could get myself covered in green goop?

I nearly groan aloud at the thought of having to go through all this again, just to come to the same conclusion I already know I will.

Unless…

"Hey," I say suddenly, unthinkingly, before I can stop myself. "Have you been feeling…weird lately?"

Spike eyes me warily, taking a small step closer. "Weird?" He cocks his head to the side, eyeing me. "Weird how?"

 _Like someone cast a spell on you that somehow, despite all logic, manifests itself as featuring you in the starring role of your mortal enemy's erotic dreams?_

"Like…off?"

His scarred eyebrow shoots up. "You worried about me, Slayer?"

I scoff, cheeks flaming, immediately backpedalling. "What? No!" I clear my throat awkwardly. "No. I was just…"

I trail off.

Just what?

Just trying to cling to the desperate idea that something, _anything_ other than my own traitorous subconscious could conjure the image of Spike's lips on mine night after night?

This is pathetic. _I'm_ pathetic.

And said Spike lips are curving up in his trademark smirk, deliciously wicked, indigo gaze fixated on me as I flounder for words.

I feel the flush creep up my neck and I'm overwhelmed with the sudden need to get away from him.

As quickly as possible.

This isn't worth it.

"You know what," I say, forcing my voice to stay even. "Never mind."

I take a step away from him but Spike isn't having it.

"Now, now," He takes two steps forward, countering the one I've just taken away and coming into my personal space the way he'd done the other night.

He looks down at me, expression unreadable, our bodies only inches apart. "You asked if I've been feelin' off," he says, voice dropping low. The moon casts shadows across his face, highlighting the razor sharp cheekbones, making his eyes look black. "I wanna know why."

I stare up at him for a long moment, unmoving. My head is spinning, tingles going crazy again the way they had the last time we'd been in this position.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

This feeling, this reaction, my heart pounding, breath catching in my throat.

This isn't a spell.

Not on me.

Not on Spike.

No. This is something much, much worse.

My eyes travel over his face, landing of their own accord on the swell of his bottom lip.

This is attraction.

I swallow hard, my eyes moving slowly back up to his.

 _This is bad._


	5. Chapter 5

We're just staring at each other.

Eyes locked, bare inches away from each other. Neither of us moves.

I don't know how long the moment lasts.

I _do_ know this has got to be the longest amount of time I've ever spent just _staring_ at him. At least...without the usual death threats.

Have his eyes always been _that_ blue?

Spike is hardly even breathing.

It's weird.

Normally I think it's weird when he _does_ breathe. Angel never breathed.

Angel never did a lot of things that Spike seems to make a regular habit of.

"What did you mean by off, Slayer?" He asks, taking a small, almost imperceptible step closer to me.

My eyelashes flutter. That smell. Purely masculine, purely Spike.

Cigarettes and whiskey, leather and a musky, wet earth scent.

The vampire clears his throat expectantly.

"Well?" He prompts me, indicating he'd actually like an answer to the question he's asked me.

If only my brain were working enough for me to remember the question in question.

But it isn't. It's completely distracted by Spike lips.

 _Lips of Spike._

The words echo hollowly in my ears, having an entirely different meaning to me now than they did a year ago.

 _Oh, boy._

Think. Think fast.

"I, um…" I can't think. Why can't I think? "Well there's been a lot of...there's been less demons around lately. I was thinking maybe there might be something...going around."

I fight the urge to wince.

Lame. _So_ lame.

Spike thinks so too.

He raises an eyebrow, cocks his head to the side. Azure eyes narrow on me. "Something...goin' around." He smirks. "Like, what?" Curls his tongue. "Demon chicken pox?"

I wonder if he knows what that expression looks like.

It helps, that he's so infuriating. Reminds me that I'm supposed to be punching him in the face, not ogling him.

Not that I'm ogling him because I am so... _not._

 _If only I could quit looking at his lips._

As if he's reading my mind, Spike's mouth twitches. My breath catches and I whip my eyes back up to his in time to see them flash.

His expression is hungry.

Something inside me drops straight to my center and starts burning.

He inhales sharply, and I watch as his nostrils flare.

He steps _right_ up to me, gazing down at me with dark eyes.

"Cat got your tongue," he practically purrs, tilting his head to the side, "pet?"

 _God._

In a fit of panic, heart hammering in my chest, I take a large step back and shoot my hand out as fast as I can.

My curled fist smashes into the bridge of Spike's nose.

"Ow!" He stumbles back, but only slightly, just enough so that he's out of my personal space.

I feel my chest expand immediately, my head clearing with the distance.

Spike glares at me, chest heaving.

Holding his nose, he yells "What the bloody hell was _that_ for?"

 _That's a loaded question._

But this is better.

Him standing a good five feet away from me, looking back at me with a look that could melt the flesh from my bones. Me gaining control over my brain again, knuckles stinging slightly from the impact of my punch.

This feels good. Known.

Normal.

I slip back into Bitchy Buffy, blinking at him with wide, falsely innocent eyes. "I need a _reason_ to hit you now?"

Spike sneers at me, wipes the blood from his nose with the back of his hand.

"You know," He says, shaking his hand, smattering the grass with blood, "You can be a right bitch, Summers."

His words hit me in a way I don't expect. A weird pang, twisting into a knot as he eyes me through his lashes with the usual contempt.

"And you can be a real pain in the ass." I fire back, but it doesn't hold quite the right amount of disdain.

It's probably just my imagination, but I could swear I see something else there, too. In his eyes, the quickest flash...something that might be disappointment.

But it's gone before I can think too much about it, and that's probably for the best.

"Was only jokin', yeah?" He stands up straight, dusts the lapels of his leather duster. "No need to get violent."

And then things get awkward.

Awkward. With Spike.

This _never_ happens.

Argumentative. Snippy. Rude. Threatening. Violent, sure.

But this? This wiggy, palpable silence stretching between us that would normally be filled with insults and a few more hits to his nose is too much.

It's that same feeling I had earlier. Like something's happened between us, but I can't put my finger on what.

I have to get out of here.

"What can I say," I say sarcastically, a bite to the words that's more put upon than anything. "You must bring it out in me."

Then I turn on my heel and make a break for the cemetery gate.

Spike yells something after me, but I don't hear it. I'm already gone, pounding the pavement, halfway around the corner.

I plow through the streets on my way back to the house, moving at a breakneck pace, only pausing once to stake a fledgling that was stupid enough to get in my way.

Attracted. I'm attracted to _Spike_.

But that can't be right. It just...it can't be.

I can't be attracted to something that's dead a-and evil...and a _vampire_.

And then the inevitable argument, the traitorous, lusty Buffy that lives in the very farthest reaches of my brain pipes up with.

 _Angel was a vampire._

Angel has a soul.

 _Spike has a chip._

Shut up.

Shut up, shut up.

 _It's the dream_ , I tell myself. Just the dream, making me _think_ I'm attracted to Spike. Like my brain's being...conditioned or something.

Like Pavlov. That's a thing, right?

I'm pretty sure he was the guy with the puppies and the bell. I remember learning about it in Professor Walsh's class last year.

Knew that'd come in handy at some point.

Cause I can't be. Attracted.

Not really.

Right?

When I open the front door, Mom and Dawn are sitting beside each other on the sofa. Mom has a blanket draped over her legs, shaking hands wrapped around a steaming mug.

I slam the door closed, all thoughts of Spike momentarily forgotten.

"What happened?" I ask, coming into the room, looking back and forth between my mom and my sister. "What's wrong?"

Dawn opens her mouth immediately to answer but Mom cuts her off with a hand on her knee, turns to smile weakly up at me.  
"Nothing's wrong," she assures me, but her voice is shaky. "I just started to feel, what's the medical term for it? Crappy. So I came home early." She raises her eyebrows meaningfully at me. "I'm fine. Everything's fine."

But everything's not fine.

Mom had to call off her night out because the medicine stopped working. Medicine that had been working just fine only an hour ago.

And Dawn. I left Dawn here by herself.

She'd still be here by herself if Mom hadn't come home.

I look at my family, wrapped up together on the couch looking so small, so helpless, and I hate myself a little bit in this moment.

I've been too wrapped up in my own dumb problems to see how badly by family needs me. Mom's sick, Dawn's scared, Riley's having a mental breakdown and what have I been doing? Sneaking around, testing out bogus spells, lying to Giles. Desperately trying to come up with a reason for the dreams I've been having which are just that.

Dreams.

Not even Slayer dreams.

Regular, run of the mill dreams that I'm deciding right now will mean _nothing._ Nothing life threatening. Nothing I can't handle.

 _They'll eventually go away on their own_ , I think, scooting over to sit on the edge of the sofa next to Mom.

 _And so will the feelings that came with them._

I decide to move back into the house.

Even though I'm still having the dreams every night, I seem to have at least gotten a handle on my reaction to them. I no longer wake up screaming every night, so I figure I'm not in danger of keeping anyone awake.

Well, except for me.

But I figure, until we figure out exactly what it is that's making Mom sick, my constant alertness probably isn't a bad thing.

The gang is nice enough to help me pack up my stuff and move it. Everyone's here, crammed into my dorm room, rifling through my chests of drawers, stacking boxes, cracking jokes. And it's...nice. Good, even. Having everyone around. It almost feels like old times with Willow, Xander and Giles. All we need's the old library and voila, instant memory lane.

Of course, we also have some new additions in the form of Riley and Tara. Dawn's here, too.

Even Anya shows, though she does make some offhanded comments on how unfair it is that I don't offer to pay them for their labor.

"Honestly, Buffy, you're verging on communism," she says lightly, lifting a particularly tiny box off the bed and giving me a hard look before carrying it out of the room.

I put my hands on my hips, raise an eyebrow at Xander.

"I have nothing to say here that won't have you all making little whipping noises." He shrugs, then turns and lifts a much larger, much heavier box, and takes the same path his girlfriend just did.

Behind me, Riley wraps his arms around my waist and squeezes.

Things have been of the much better variety between us lately. I mean, no, we still aren't exactly dealing with anything outright, but we aren't actively avoiding it either. We're sort of doing this weird little dance where we discuss things, but only halfway, and only after they come up.

And things of the physical nature haven't exactly been plentiful lately. I chalk it up to being stressed over Mom, and spending little to virtually none in the alone time department. Riley hasn't pushed me though, and I'm not about to bring anything like that up.

Not when the only thing I seem to be able to picture when I close my eyes is bleached blonde hair and black leather.

Still...things are better.

"I think we've got almost all of it boxed up," Riley says, leaning down to whisper in my ear. "You about ready for a _break_?"

I fight to keep the smile on my face, even as the prospect of taking that kind of "break" makes my stomach feel a little funny.

And not in the good way.

 _It's probably just nerves_ , I reason. Just worry over the reason for the move.

Nothing else.

Still, I put my hands over his and pull them gently away from me, spinning around in his arms so I can see his face. I plaster on a smile.

"Not yet." I gesture back behind him toward my hanging clothes. "The closet still looks pretty...closetty."

There's a flash of disappointment that clouds his eyes, but it's gone before my stomach can start that weird, twisty guilt thing it's been doing lately. He plasters on a smile that matches mine, nods his head.

"I should probably help Xander with the fridge, anyway." He squeezes my hands. "Who knows what'll happen otherwise."

I smile a little wider, stretching the already strained expression. "Okay."

He drops my hands and steps around me, heading toward the other corner of the room where Xander's currently attempting to the lift the bottom corner of my fridge, and Anya's supervising. Loudly.

"Alright," Willow says, stepping into the room looking flushed and a little rumpled. "I think that's everything on our list." She turns her gaze on me, wide and hopeful. "So, if it's okay...I think Tara and I'll just head out?" Her voice squeaks up at the end, the way it does when she's politely trying to get out of something. "I mean, if that's okay with you. I know we were supposed to be here a little longer, it's just, with Tara's party and everything, I still have so much to do and I-"

"Will," I say, stopping her with a look.

"Am I being ramble girl?"

I nod, shooing her playfully with my hands. "Go on, get to gettin'."

"Thanks," she says, looking relieved. Then she turns her attention around the room, addressing all of us, "and don't forget, everyone needs to be at the Bronze at 8:00 tomorrow!"

There's a murmured chorus of agreement, now that we've all been reminded twice about the birthday party we'd clearly all forgotten, and she dashes out of the room, narrowly missing bumping into Dawn and spilling a mile high stack of t-shirts she's carrying.

I immediately reach toward her to help, but she pulls the pile out my reach.

"I've got it," she tells me, moving around me to place them in a box on the bed. "I don't need help."

Dawn's been especially moody lately. Giles says it's just because she's worried about Mom and doesn't know how else to deal, but I think she's just at that age.

That's what people always say, isn't it? _That_ age? Like there's a universal time period where we all turn into raging little hormone monsters.

Sometimes it's hard for me to be sensitive to all the things Dawn's probably going through. I honestly don't remember what it was like to be fourteen. To be a normal teenager.

When having the weight of the world on your shoulders was deciding whether or not to ask Bobby or Kyle to the eighth grade dance and wasn't, ya know...literal.

But with Mom being sick, with the doctor's not being able to give us any real answers, she has to be feeling scared.

I should probably cut her some slack.

"Ew," Dawn says, pulling out a frilly pink skirt from my closet. "Do you actually _wear_ this thing?"

 _On second thought._

"Dawn!" I reach out and yank the skirt out of her hands. "When I said you could come I meant you could come _help_ , not come be a pain in the butt."

Dawn scowls at me.

"I hope Riley hasn't seen it," she says, crossing her arms over her chest. "He'd dump you in a second."

I frown, looking down at the skirt in my hands.

It's the same one Spike pulled out of my closet last year, during Willow's spell. He'd actually made pretty much the same type of reference to it.

I drop the offending pink scrap onto the bed as though it's burned me.

"Buffy?"

It's Giles, from behind me. I whip around to face him. He has his face half buried in a book, leaning against the side of the wall. He doesn't look up from the text to address me.

"You never did tell me the rest of what happened when you were under the trance," he turns the page, flicks his eyes up to me, then back down again. "Anything else of note?"

 _You mean besides finding out I have the hots for Spike?_

"Nope." I turn back toward the boxes on the bed, systematically shoveling clothes into them one by one.

"You're certain?" Giles presses, sounding unconvinced. "It seems odd that you wouldn't discover a single thing."

I shrug, keeping my eyes down. "I came, I tranced, I didn't see any spells."

Giles makes that little noise in the back of his throat, the one that sort of sounds like he's clearing it but a lot more British.

I finish packing my box and sigh, standing up. Dusting my hands off, I glance toward him.

He eyes me warily over the top rims of his glasses for a long moment. When I don't offer any more information, he seems to give up.

"It was a non-event, then?" He asks, snapping his booked closed with one hand.

I smile, relieved that he seems to be dropping it.

"The non-ist."

Suddenly, there's a loud thud from the other corner of the room, and a rather undignified squeal from Xander. Giles, Dawn and I whip our heads over just in time to see Riley's edge of the fridge slide out of his hands, slamming down and pinning Xander's thumb against the wall.

"And that'll about do it for moving day," I mutter under my breath. A little louder, "You okay, Xand?"

He's shaking his hand out, grimacing in pain. Anya flutters around him helplessly.

"All good," he says, then shoots a mock glare at Riley. "It's not like I need an opposable thumb, anyway."

"Sorry." Riley says, returning the mocking glare. "Cry baby."

He looks sincerely apologetic, but also a little fed up.

Probably not just with Xander, either.

I toss a glance at Giles, who's looking a little on the fed up side himself.

"You know what, I think that's a sign," I say, trying my best to offer them both a wide smile. "Let's call it for the day."

I thank everyone for their help and watch them leave, one by one, until the only people left are me, Riley and Dawn. The three of us finish loading the packed boxes into Riley's car, and he offers to take them over to Mom's house for me so I can meet Giles back at the Magic Box for a little Slayer/Watcher time.

"I don't want you to have to miss a day because of all this," he explains, putting his hands on my arms and rubbing up and down.

I smile at him, hoping it comes off as grateful and not guilty.

I've actually missed several days of scheduled training time with Giles over the past couple weeks. Between the sleepless nights, the double patrols and the stuff going on with Mom...but I've also been using my "extra training" as an excuse sometimes not to spend that extra alone time with Riley.

The thought of lying to him today, of using training as an excuse...it feels worse than it normally does. Probably because he just spent the entire morning and half the afternoon helping me move.

Or because Riley's sweet and kind and doesn't deserve to be lied to.

I have got to get my life figured out.

So I let him drop me off at the Magic Box. Let him kiss goodbye me before I slide out of the passenger's seat. I wave at him and Dawn as they drive off, waiting for them to turn the corner before I face the magic shop's door.

I frown at it.

I don't have any time scheduled for training today.

Still, I'm sure Giles would be happy to pencil me in for a quick sparring session if I asked him to. He'd probably be relieved. I haven't exactly been all with the wearing my Slayer badge lately.

It all just sounds so daunting.

In spite of my nightly patrolling times two, I haven't been much in the slaying of things mood. I mean, of course I'll stake a vamp when I see one. I'll pop a demon's head like a zit if I need to.

But it hasn't been holding the same sense of satisfaction that it used to. I've even found myself holding back, only half fighting, using just a little more than half my strength.

But I always finish them off in the end.

And really, that's only with fledges.

Except, it isn't.

I'd held back the last time I'd seen Spike. The punch I'd thrown at him had barely made him stumble back. I hadn't been trying to hurt him. Master Vampire, completely unable to fight back, and I hadn't _wanted_ to hurt him.

I don't know why.

And that's all the more reason for me to get back into full Slayer mode. I need a refresher. A reminder of who I am, what it is I've been called to do.

So maybe I'll go a few rounds with the punching bag in the back room. Get Giles to help me do a little Slayer research, dig into some of those Watcher's diaries.

I push open the door, feeling more enthused than I have been in weeks, and step into the dark interior. Giles whips his head toward me when he hears the bell chime, looking a little disappointed when he sees it's only me.

I jokingly frown at him. "Gee, don't get all excited."

He gives me an apologetic look, pulling off his glasses. "I'm sorry, Buffy. Business has just been a little slow." He sits down at the stool on the other side of the cash register, looking a little out of place.

That's normally Anya's spot.

"Hoping to move a little magic, huh?" I ask, walking down the steps, toying absently with some of the merchandise at the center table as I walk by.

He gives me a very Watchery look as I approach the counter.

"Poor alliteration aside," he begins, then stops, laughing lightly, "Yes, that's it precisely." He looks up at me expectantly. "You didn't perhaps come to buy anything, did you?"

I give him my answer with two raised eyebrows.

"Yes, well, I thought as much." He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Never hurts to ask."

In spite of Giles' less than chipper outlook on business, I happen to know that he's been doing very well.

Well, _very_ well might be an overstatement.

But no one's managed to kill him yet, and as owner of a magic shop in Sunnydale, that's a pretty impressive feat all on its own.

"I was actually stopping by to see if I could get a workout in," I say, coming to lean against the glass counter. "Maybe take a little look see at some of those diaries?"

"Buffy, you're always free to use the training room. And to look at any of the books I have here."

"I was kind of hoping...you'd want to help me?" I wave my hands at him. "Ya know...be all with the Watching."

"Ah yes," he says wryly, placing his glasses back on his nose and standing up, "my non-paying job."

I bite my lip. "I also don't have a gift for Tara yet?"

Giles gives me a sardonic smirk. I beam at him.

He shakes his head and moves around to the other side of the counter, motioning me to go ahead of him.

"Seriously though, what do you think Tara might like?" I ask as we head back together towards the training room. "I mean...am I supposed to get her something witchy?"

Giles closes the door behind us and walks over to a small table, rifling around until he finds what he needs.

"May I suggest you not get her one of those cheap crystal balls?"

He tosses me the boxing hand wraps, and I proceed to unfurl them and start wrapping them around my wrists.

It feels good. Really good.

"Why not?" I ask, finishing the tie on my left hand and moving to my right.

Giles smiles wryly at me, coming to stand in front of the punching bag and placing his hands on either side.

"I have mine already wrapped."

I throw two hard jabs, left and right, then one particularly strong left hook straight to the center of the bag.

The hardest punch I've thrown in weeks.

The bag shakes on its chain, Giles having to grip it hard to keep it from spinning around.

The relief I feel is immediate.

This is exactly what I've needed. What I've been missing.

But the question niggles at me, settling in at the back of my mind. I bury it, but it resurfaces, pulsing forward with every hit, every kick, every jingle of the chain.

 _Why can I throw punches like this at a punching bag, but not at a vampire?_

The real question I'm asking myself echoes in my ears as I continue to reign blows over the heavy leather bound bag.

 _But not at Spike?_


	6. Chapter 6

I watch, hands on my hips, as Tara's family skulks out the front door of the Magic Box.

So creepy.

No wonder she moved halfway across the country to get away from them.

I turn back around to face my friends, scanning the room absently.

No sign of fluorescent hair. Spike must have left already.

 _Not that I care._

Dawn grins at me. It's the first time in weeks she's offered me anything other than a glower.

"That was awesome," she says excitedly.

"Yeah," I say, grimacing a little as I step around the Lei-Ach demon. "Tell that to my brand new boots."

Across the room, Willow squeezes Tara's hand.

"Thank you," Tara says softly, drawing my attention to her. Her eyes are wet with tears, but she's smiling so warmly at me I have to think they're happy ones. "For what you said."

I offer her a smile. "I meant it."

And I did.

From behind me, Giles exhales a sigh.

I turn around in time to see him pulling his glasses off.

"I don't suppose any of you would be willing to stay and help…" he pauses, gesturing around us with his glasses "clean all this up?"

There's a halfhearted chorus of "yes" and "sure", and one rousing cry of "overtime!" from Anya.

Giles rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. "Much obliged."

I stay and help with the clean up, righting tables and clearing away some of the debris from various broken merchandise.

After half an hour, Tara and Willow bow out. I don't blame them.

It's been a long night for everyone, probably Tara most of all.

After another hour or so, most of the heavy lifting is done, and Dawn's looking dead on her feet.

"Do you need me to take you home?" I ask, hauling a very full trash bag up over my shoulder.

Dawn glares at me.

 _And, we're back._

"I don't need _you_ to take me anywhere."

I toss an exasperated look at Giles, who merely pretends like he isn't listening and turns away from us.

I set the trash bag back down on the floor, look back at Dawn.

"Okay," I draw the word out, letting my eyes roll skyward. "But _Mom_ disagrees with you."

Dawn pouts. "Mom doesn't—"

"Want you walking home alone at night," I finish for her, hands on my hips. "And I agree with her." I pause, try for a smile. "C'mon Dawn, please? We don't want to cause her any more stress than we already have—"

"You mean _you_ already have," she snaps, cutting me off.

My mouth clamps shut.

It's no secret my somewhat erratic behavior over the past few weeks has caused Mom to worry. More so than usual.

She knows I haven't been sleeping well.

She knows Dawn and I have been fighting more than ever.

It's the last thing she needs, and I know it.

"It's probably your fault she's sick in the first place," Dawn continues under her breath, folding her arms and turning away from me.

The words hit me hard.

After all, isn't that exactly the thought I'd had weeks ago? That someone could be doing this to my mom to get to me?

Even if I know it's not true, it doesn't make hearing it…hearing that someone _else_ thinks it…any better.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, then open them, forcing a smile onto my face.

I look over to Giles, whose brow is now furrowed with worry.

"Do you mind if I take her?" I ask, forcing my voice to stay light.

"Of course not," he says, smiling. "You do whatever you need to."

His eyes meet mine meaningfully for a half second, then he turns to take in a sweeping glance around the shop.

Despite all the work we've put in, there's still a lot of cleanup left to do.

Including two dead demon bodies.

"Why don't you let us take her, Buff," Xander suggests, laying a stack of damaged books down on the research table. I turn towards him, watching as he steadies the stack of books and walks back around the table. "We're heading that way anyway."

His tone is casual, light.

But when his eyes meet mine, I can see he's coming to my rescue.

I smile at him gratefully.

He smiles back.

"Do we have to?" Anya asks from behind the cash register. She's been counting and recounting the money for the past twenty minutes. "I'd really rather just go home."

Xander's smile turns tense, but he doesn't break eye contact with me.

"Ahn, sweetie," he clasps his hands together, turning to look at his girlfriend, "can we just a _little_ less with the honesty?"

Anya blinks at him.

"What? I'm tired." She shuts the cash register and walks around the counter. "And Dawn's fourteen year's old," she waves a hand in my sister's direction, "can't she walk home by herself?"

Dawn beams at her.

"No." Both Giles and I say in unison.

Dawn scowls at me, folding her arms over her chest.

Beside me, Giles chuckles.

He stops abruptly when Dawn turns her glare on him.

I turn my attention back to Xander. "If you don't mind, that'd be really helpful. Then I can help Giles clean up our pal here," I nudge the Lei-Ach with my boot, "and leave straight for patrol after."

Xander nods.

"You got it." He turns, motioning for Dawn to come with him. "Alright Dawnster, let's get you home."

I watch, smiling, as the three of them leave. Dawn casts one last derisive glance in my direction just before the little bell dings and the door clicks shut.

I turn back to Giles, shoulders sagging as I slump onto the bench beside me.

"So, whadya think?" I ask, propping my chin up in my hand. "Am I a shoo in for Big Sister of the year?"

Giles gives me a knowing look and sits down across from me.

"You're doing just fine, Buffy," he assures me, smiling. "You both have an immense amount on your shoulders right now, especially you."

I raise my eyebrows at him. "Tell that to Dawn.

He nods in an understanding way, leaning back in his chair. "You're only trying to keep her safe, and your mother from worrying. She'll understand that some day."

I exhale loudly, affecting a small pout.

"Is that like...'some day soon'," I murmur, drawing a little pattern into the wood table, "or the one you use when you tell your kids that they can have a puppy 'some day'?"

Giles chuckles.

We sit in silence for a little while.

It's nice.

Until the Watcher side gets the better of Giles and he reminds me we have a cleanup on aisle two to take care of.

"Okay," I grumble, pushing myself up to a standing position. "We might have a little trouble trying to get the thing out of here, though."

But when I turn back to where I know I left the Lei-Ach's body, it's gone, replaced by a stinking puddle of what can only be described as black sludge.

"Ugh." I wrinkle my nose in disgust, then turn back toward Giles. "Is that better or worse?"

He comes to stand beside me, brow furrowed. "I'd rather think worse."

I stare at it a little longer, then "Got any Windex?"

Giles sighs.

We're able to get all the Lei-Ach goo off the stairs, and in a surprisingly speedy amount of time. It's when I head into the training room to handle the mess I know I've left there that things get weird.

There are two puddles of black sludge in here.

One over by the brick wall, where I smashed one of the ugly demons head's into the wall.

But there's another one, over on the ground near my weapons.

I frown, looking back and forth between the two black puddles.

I know I didn't take two of them out back here.

There was just the wall smashing…and the neck breaking out front.

My brows knit together.

"Giles!"

He comes bounding around the corner in an instant, eyes wide. When he sees me standing alone in the training room, he visibly relaxes.

"Do keep in mind that I'm not as young as I once was when you shout like that," he scolds me, walking into the room and coming to stand beside me. "What is it?"

I point to the black goo on the ground by the brick wall. "That's the demon I killed." I point toward the black goo near the weapons. "That's the demon I _didn't_ kill."

I notice for the first time that several of my weapons are scattered on the ground around it.

There was a struggle back here, and I wasn't a part of it.

Giles looks as puzzled as I feel.

"There were three of them?" He asks, putting his hands on his hips and looking from side to side.

I nod, gesturing wide with my arms. "That's what the evidence would suggest."

It doesn't make sense.

I'd struggled with one Lei-Ach back here.

One.

And as soon as I'd smashed his head in, I'd made a run for the front.

It had just been me back in the training room before it all started. Giles, Dawn, Xander…everyone else had been working in the front.

I rack my brain, still staring at the second puddle.

The only other person who'd come from back here was…

 _"_ _Lei-Ach demon. Fun little buggers. Big with the marrow-sucking."_

"Spike."

Giles whips his head toward me.

"Spike?"

I point purposefully back to the goo surrounded by my scattered weapons by way of explanation.

Giles frowns.

I sigh, pointing again. "That demon was killed by Spike."

He looks dubious. "Why do you say that?"

I frown.

Honestly, it's mostly a gut feeling.

Gut feeling, coupled with the fact that I _know_ he was the only other thing back here with me during the struggle.

"It had to have been Spike, Giles. There wasn't anyone else back here."

When he still looks unconvinced, I throw my hands up. "The demon didn't just keel over on it's own!"

"Well, no," he agrees, adjusting his glasses, "I don't suppose it did."

We stand next to each other, staring at the stinking black goo for a few seconds longer before Giles turns back to me.

"Still, Buffy…Spike?" A small, unconvinced chuckle escapes his lips. "What reason would Spike have to kill a demon that was after _you_?"

 _And that's the million-dollar question._

I turn my eyes to his. "I'll find out."

The past couple times I've seen Spike, it's been by accident. I hadn't wanted to see him.

In fact, I'd been actively avoiding him.

Now, I seek him out.

I'd had my suspicions before, that it could be Spike. The reason why things have seemed so quiet lately.

Doing his own patrols, dusting fledges here and there.

Of course, I hadn't thought he was doing it to be _helpful_. I'd believed him when he said he was only in it for the violence.

Still, over the last few weeks, I'd had my suspicions. The few times I'd run in to him, things had felt…off. Awkward.

What I've seen tonight confirms it.

Spike's helping.

He _helped_ us tonight.

Showed up in just the knick of time, too, if there really had been two of those things back there with me.

Which was…convenient.

But even then. Even after the demons were gone, he stepped in. With Tara, her family.

Granted, yes, he did it by punching her in the nose…

But that's really pretty far beside the point.

Because even if it was some kind of twisted, soulless, _Spike_ version of help, it was still help.

It was still _him_.

It was still _us_.

And it's wigging me right now too much for words.

I kick open the door to the crypt with a loud bang, listen to the sound echo around me as I charge down the steps.

I don't know what I'm expecting to see, but this isn't it.

Spike's sitting stone still in his worn out easy chair. He's slumped low, his legs splayed wide, cigarette in hand.

The platinum hair is mussed, tousled and free from the usual gel. It stands up around his head, various curls and peaks, like he's been running his hands through it.

Flickers of candlelight dance over the side of his face that I can see, casting it in impossible shadows.

The overall effect is frankly a little stunning.

He just barely turns to look at me as I approach, but remains seated.

"Slayer," he exhales a long stream of smoke, "to what do I owe this unpleasant surprise?"

The question, the way he asks it. His voice still has the bite to it, the mocking edge, but it's also almost tired.

I frown at him, feeling caught off guard.

My brain shorts out, and I ask the first question that comes to mind.

"Where's Harmony?"

I fight the urge to wince.

 _That's the best you could do?_

Spike turns the full weight of his gaze on me, scarred eyebrow raised.

"Dunno," he sits up slightly in the chair, leaning down to place his forearms over his thighs.

"You don't know?" I hear myself ask, wondering internally why it is I'm still bothering with questions about Harmony.

Spike looks like he's wondering the same thing.

He tilts his head to the side, regarding me with amused eyes. "Tell you what," his lips twitch, "If I see her, I'll clue her you're lookin' for her."

Then he smirks wryly at me, and I watch him take another long drag off the cigarette.

Watch the way his lips close around the end, pursing slightly. Watch the way his nostrils flare and eyelashes flutter when he inhales, candlelight still casting his face in flickering shadow.

I swallow hard, the scent of the smoke making my mouth water.

 _No._

I blink rapidly, pulling back my focus.

Clearing my throat, crossing my arms over my chest, I say "I thought she was living here."

"Ah," Spike nods, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth. " _Was_ being the operative word, there."

He pushes himself to a standing position.

And that's when I notice.

His shirt. He's not wearing his usual cotton t-shirt.

He has on the satiny black one, the button down with the grey pattern on it.

The shirt from my dream.

I know it. I'd know it anywhere.

I've only been seeing it every night for three weeks straight.

But I also know I've never seen him wear it before. Not in person.

So where did Buffy's brain get the image from?

Willow's words float back to me, bouncing around in my suddenly empty brain.

 _"_ _Was it like…a slayer dream?"_

A cold flush spreads through my body, from the back of my neck to the tips of my toes. My heart skips a beat in my chest.

A tiny sound, a breathless little gasp, escapes my lips.

"Oh."

Spike freezes, eyeing me warily from beneath raised brows.

My God, what is the matter with me? I came here for a reason.

I was going to demand answers.

Now I'm all tongue tied girl. And why? Because of some stupid shirt?

 _It's just a shirt, Buffy. Get a grip._

Spike takes a casual step toward me and I immediately counter with a stumbling step back.

He chuckles, cocking his head to the side. Sweeps his lashes down, slowly back up.

 _It was just a dream._

I repeat the phrase as I stare at him, feeling the heat in my cheeks, the rushing in my ears.

 _It doesn't mean anything._

"Actin' awfully twitchy tonight, Slayer," He says, taking one last drag off the cigarette before dropping it to the ground, crushing it with his boot. "I know you didn't come all the way out here to ask after my love life."

I shake my head, coming back to myself.

He's right. I had a purpose in coming out here.

And letting him distract me with his cigarettes and his eyes and his stupid, silky looking dream shirt is very un-Slayerlike of me.

 _Just do it._

I just have to do it.

"Why did you kill that Lei-Ach demon?" I ask suddenly, the words tumbling passed my lips with all the tact of…well, Anya.

Spike stares at me, eyes going wide. "Why did I _what_?"

"The Lei-Ach demon," I say matter-of-factly, "There were three of them tonight, at the Magic Box." Doing my best to affect my usual confidence, I cross my arms. "I only killed two."

Spike tilts his head back, looking down at me, eyebrow raised. His lips purse.

"Mmhmm." He folds his arms over his chest, mirroring me. "And you think _I_ killed the third?"

I blink at him, frowning. He looks so confident, so sure of himself.

My arms drop down to my sides. "Didn't you?"

This elicits a deep chuckle from the vampire.

Low, rumbling.

The sound makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

"Tell me, Slayer," he practically purrs, voice low as he takes another step toward me. His azure eyes gleam in the candlelight. "Why would I go out of my way to take out a demon that was tryin' to kill _you_?"

I blink at him, dumbfounded.

The entire way over here I never once thought I could be wrong.

 _Oh, God._ Was Giles right?

This was a mistake.

Big mistake.

And the way Spike's looking at me now. Like he can smell blood in the water.

I scramble, grasping at straws, trying to get back the upper hand.

"But, you were there tonight," I point out hurriedly, trying to keep my voice even. "You were there at the Magic Box."

He nods, smirking.

"Wanted a front row seat, didn't I? Heard someone was after the Slayer. And since I can't do it myself, well…" he trails off, tongue curling up behind his teeth.

He's been slowly backing me up, pushing me toward the door.

But now I stop, brow furrowing.

It's funny. I'm watching him. I'm hearing him say the words.

The very Spike-like words.

But it all feels…false. Put upon. Like he's playing a part.

I fix him with a hard look, logic taking over again.

"Then how'd it end up dead, Spike?"

His eyes flash, going wide, the Big Bad expression faltering just long enough for me to see it.

But he recovers quickly.

"Decided it wasn't right," He explains quickly, shrugging. "A Slayer goin' out like that." Then he drops his gaze from mine for the first time. "You couldn't even _see_ the buggers."

Something in my chest swells. Relief, maybe.

 _I was right._

"So you did kill it."

It isn't a question.

Spike's eyes shoot up to mine again, and he scowls at me.

"Bloody well wasn't to _help_ you, if that's what you think."

The force with which he says it catches me off guard.

He practically snarls it.

And he's looking at me now like he wants to burn a hole in my skull.

I've touched a nerve.

And I haven't said a word about my 'helping' theory to him. He shot that out at me all on his own.

I narrow my eyes, feeling like I've gained some ground back.

"And if that _is_ what I think?" I ask, my voice dropping dangerously low.

I came here for answers. I'm not leaving without them.

I look up at him, searching his eyes with mine.

His nostrils flare.

"Then you'd be off your bleeding bird," he growls, voice little more than a gravelly whisper.

I can feel the anger radiating off him in waves as I stare him down.

Anger, yes.

But it's not hatred. Not quite.

My tinglies are going berserk and we're just bare inches away from each other. His blue eyes are gas flames, blazing into mine.

I should keep my mouth shut.

I should leave.

I should turn around and leave, get the hell out of here, before something bad happens.

Before I push him too far.

Instead, I tilt my head up, gaze still locked with his, and whisper "Then why did you hit Tara?"

I see the decision form in his eyes a second before it happens.

But it's too late. There's nothing I can do to stop it.

I'm not even sure I want to.

Spike wraps his hands tightly around my arms and yanks me toward him.

I gasp, eyes fluttering closed just as I feel it. The slightest hesitation, and then the faintest touch. Smooth, soft lips ghosting over mine. The taste of cigarettes. Cool breath fanning over my lips.

And then he digs his nails into the fabric of my jacket and shoves me away from him, hard into the stone wall of the crypt.

I hit with enough force that it causes his chip to fire, knocks the air from my lungs.

I double over, gasping, staring back at him with wide, glazed eyes.

Spike's got his hand pressed against his forehead, chest heaving, looking back at me with eyes equally glazed, just as wide.

It's almost like the same thought passes between us, unspoken.

 _What the hell just happened?_


	7. Chapter 7

"What the hell was that?" I ask, bracing my palms against the crypt wall behind me, breathless, chest heaving.

Spike narrows his still-glazed eyes.

When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. "You tell me."

I don't have an answer for him.

I don't have anything to say.

My head is swimming, full of swirling, heady images. Some are from the dream, some are from just a moment ago. They blend together behind my eyes.

Tactile, tangible.

My lips are tingling, burning where Spike's have just ghosted over them. He'd barely touched me, but the scent of his cigarettes is so strong in the air and there's an oaky, astringent flavor of whiskey on my bottom lip when I dart my tongue out to taste it.

I can feel my pulse, hammering away, blood rushing in my ears. There are two thoughts in my mind, battling for the top spot. Logic versus lust.

I need to leave. I want to stay.

Either way, it feels like the wrong move.

"I should go," I say quietly, swallowing the anxious lump in my throat.

Spike's eyes fall to my mouth. My fingers twitch.

Every muscle in his body looks tight, coiled. Like a snake in the grass.

"You should," he murmurs, just as quiet.

I don't know who moves first.

If I'm ever asked, I'll say it was him. It might have been me.

I don't know.

I can't think with his lips pressed against mine.

Lips that are cool and smooth and not gentle at all as they claim my own, savaging mine with bruising force. I open my mouth immediately for him when I feel his tongue run along the seam of my lips, forcing his way inside, swallowing my moan.

He tastes incredible.

Different than in my dream. The same, but _more_. Better. The cigarettes are there, the alcohol, and that something sweet, too. Different now, though, because it's real.

Spike's hands are really on my hips. His nails are really digging into me, twisting the fabric of my shirt. It's his body that mine is crushed against. His lips, his mouth that I'm claiming with my own.

And it's so good.

 _Oh, God. It's_ so _good._

Somewhere, deep in the back of my mind, logic rears its ugly head. I remember dimly through the haze. Spike equals bad.

Spike's lips...

 _This is so bad._

My eyes shoot open, and I place my hands firmly on his chest and shove him away from me. Spike stumbles backward, looking stunned, blinking at me. His eyes are black, unfocused, pupils completely blown. His lips are gorgeous, red and swollen from my kisses.

I fight the desire to growl, the primal urge I feel racing through my veins to nibble on them, suck them back into my mouth.

 _No._

I shake my head to clear it.

"What the hell are we doing?" I manage to ask, breathless. My cheeks are burning, raging heat spreading down over my neck, into my chest. Heart pounding.

Spike scoffs, blinking dazed eyes.

" _We_?" He shakes his head, lips curving up in snarl. "That was all you, Slayer."

We stare at each other, both our breathing ragged.

For a tense, breathless moment I wonder whether or not this could end badly. Looking at Spike, his black, blazing eyes, the way they're narrowed on me now. Like I'm prey.

Even with that chip in his brain, I know the answer.

 _Absolutely._

There's a beat, another long pause.

And then we fly at each other again.

He growls deep in his throat as we collide, bodies hitting with enough force that I smash him into the wall. Spike bites down hard on my bottom lip, threading his hands in my hair. I let out a little whimper against him. Half pained, half pleasured. He chuckles wickedly.

I feel the vibration everywhere.

 _Oh._

I dig my nails into his shoulders, inhaling sharply, pressing my body flat against his. He uses his grip in my hair to turn my head to the side, deepening the kiss.

It's not enough.

It's all I can think, over and over again in my muddled, lust addled brain.

I'm not _close_ enough.

Spike reads my mind.

He keeps one hand tangled in my hair, brings the other down to the swell of my lower back and splays his fingers wide, yanking me forward, roughly driving my hips into his. He swallows my gasp greedily, savaging my lips, tasting every corner of my mouth with his tongue.

It's the feel of his denim-clad arousal, hard and strong against me that does it.

Like cold water.

"No," I say out loud, once again putting my hands on his chest for leverage. This time, I shove myself away from him. It's my turn to stumble backward, gasping, putting one hand against my temple.

It hits me all at once. What I've just done, what I've been doing.

Oh.

 _Oh, no._

"Oh, God," I whisper, voice strained.

I instantly start to back up toward the crypt's door, stumbling awkwardly, keeping my eyes down on the ground.

"Slayer." It's a warning as much as anything. Voice dangerous, dripping with sex.

It hits me straight in my core.

But I keep my eyes down, keep moving for the door. I don't look at Spike. I can't. He takes a step toward me. I can see him out of the corner of my eye. I put a hand up to stop him.

"Don't."

My mind is reeling.

This was me. I've done this. I've taken what could have been dismissed as 'just a dream' and I've made it into something real. A real life, tangible memory.

My God, I couldn't ignore it when it _wasn't_ real. How am I going to ignore it now?

My eyes go wide.

Riley.

Oh, God, I have to tell Riley.

 _No,_ I think frantically, shaking my head. _I need to not tell anyone._

 _Ever._

I shoot my eyes up to Spike, narrowing them, make my voice as dangerous as I can. "If you say a word about this to _anyone..."_

I leave the threat open. I doubt I could work up enough venom right now to make it sound convincing, anyway.

I think he gets the idea, because his eyes flash. He opens his mouth to say something but I don't wait for him.

I always manage to get the last word in, lately.

I turn on my heel and sprint up the crypt's stairs, flying out into the night, taking in great, greedy gulps of fresh air as I let the crypt door slam shut behind me.

For a moment, _just_ a moment, I worry that he might come after me.

And then I remember that this is me. Buffy Summers. Slayer, The.

This is Spike. Slayer of Slayers, The.

What happened tonight was a fluke. That's all.

It was just a mistake.

And it will never happen again.

The first thing I see when I round the corner onto Revello Drive is Riley's car. It's parked in my driveway, the headlights still on. I can see from where I've come to a screeching halt that he's still sitting in the driver's seat.

 _This_ is exactly what I need. Because my life isn't already complicated enough.

A confrontation with my boyfriend in the middle of the night. The same boyfriend I've been actively avoiding. Because of the dreams I've been having. About a vampire. An evil, soulless, delicious vampire.

The same vampire I've just spent the last fifteen minutes locking lips with.

And I'm sure I look like it, too. I can still feel the flush in my cheeks. My eyes are glazed over, my lips are swollen and Spike's taste is still permeating my mouth.

I take a deep breath. His scent is everywhere.

I wonder if Riley will be able to smell it, too, or if maybe I'm just hyper aware of it.

I squeeze my eyes shut, sending out a silent curse to whatever Powers That Be had a hand in this special hell, just as I hear the sound of a car door opening.

 _Fantastic_.

"Buffy!" Riley calls my name. I open my eyes to see him walking down the street toward me. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

 _Not everywhere_ , I think dryly, taking another deep breath and forcing a bright smile onto my face.

He falls into step beside me as we walk back toward the house. I don't slow down.

"Rough night?" He asks me, frowning.

My step falters, eyes going wide. I blink up at him.

"What?"

 _Is it that obvious?_

Riley gestures toward the hem of my shirt, like what he means should be obvious. Brow furrowed, I look down.

It's ripped.

Spike ripped my shirt.

Spike ripped my shirt when we were kissing. When he had his hands on me.

When I had my hands on him.

 _Oh, boy._

My eyes shoot back up to Riley's and I scramble, racking my brain for an excuse.

"Oh, ya know," I say hurriedly, going for casual. "Patrol." I silently pray he doesn't notice I have no weapon on me. "I'm patrol girl."

 _Lie number one._

Riley nods, looking down at me. "How was it?"

I get a mental flash of Spike, his hands tangled in my hair, growling against my lips...

 _Incredible._

"Duels, dustings, decapitations." I gesture absently with my hands. "What's not to love?"

 _Lie number two._

I hate this.

"Ah, the three D's," Riley says, trying for a laugh that comes out strained. "I remember those."

I force another grin, saying softly, "Yeah."

Things grow awkwardly silent as we approach the house. The porch lights are on, and so is Dawn's bedroom light. But that's it.

Good. Hopefully that means Mom's getting some rest.

 _And I can go straight upstairs, shower and go to bed._

"Look, Riley," I say, turning to face him once we reach the porch steps. "It's late, and I should probably check in with Mom so-"

"You want me to go," He finishes for me, the false smile all but vanishing from his face.

I exhale slowly, chewing hard on the inside of my cheek. My tongue comes away from the bite with the flavor of cigarettes and blood.

My heart rate quickens.

"No, that's not it." _Lie number three._ "I-I just haven't been home all day, and I don't want her to worry."

Riley doesn't respond to me. He looks down at his feet, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.

The guilty, twisty feeling happens in my stomach.

I'm being so unfair. So majorly unfair, that it hurts my head to think about it.

I should just let him go. Stop being so selfish. It's not like me staying with him is doing anyone any favors.

I can't even pretend to be happy to see him tonight. It's all I can do just to make the effort to keep the fake smile on my face.

I open my mouth to say something, anything. What, I'm not sure.

Riley beats me to it.

"This isn't working," he says, shuffling his feet. He keeps his eyes down, away from mine. "Is it?"

I gape at him.

My mouth opens once, then closes. Opens again. A small, stuttering sound escapes that doesn't really mean much of anything.

What can I say to that? It's obvious. Painfully obvious that this isn't working.

Riley just doesn't know the reason why.

Still, it hurts. I stare at him, studying his face, wishing he'd look up at me.

After a long, tense silence, I clear my throat. "I…" I trail off. I don't know what I am. _Wrong? Disgusting? Pathetic?_

I think about the way it felt to have Spike's hands on me, his tongue in my mouth. It twists my stomach, makes me feel sick.

Not because I didn't like it, but because I _did_.

A lot.

 _So, all the above?_

"No," I finally say, dropping my own eyes down to the ground. "It isn't."

Neither of us moves for a long time. We stand there at the bottom of the porch, my arms over my chest, his hands still buried deep in his pockets. We don't look at each other.

When he finally speaks again, his voice sounds strange. Thick, like he might be holding back tears.

"I'm sorry." He straightens his back, tilting his head up to look at me. "I'm sorry that I couldn't be what you needed."

My eyes flutter closed, and I swear I can hear my heart breaking in my chest.

I shake my head, impulsively reaching out and taking his hand. I'm a little surprised when he lets me. More surprised at how alien his hand feels in mine. Too big. It doesn't fit.

I'm not sure it ever did.

And it only reaffirms what we both seem to know.

No matter the reason, no matter the circumstance. This moment right now has been a long time coming. It might have even been inevitable.

It's what I'd warned him about when we'd first started. This life...it isn't a hobby for me. It doesn't end. I'd wanted so desperately after Angel to find someone simple. Joe Normal. Riley had used the term in a negative way before.

It's what I'd wanted.

But maybe Riley's right. Maybe normal just isn't enough.

Maybe it can't be.

I sigh, exhaling through my nose.

"It isn't you, Riley." I squeeze his hand, looking up into his face. I search his eyes, infuse my voice with as much sincerity as I can. Because I mean what I say next. Every word. "It's me."

I go straight upstairs, not bothering to take my jacket or shoes off before I crash down into my bed.

And I cry.

I let myself cry for a couple hours. It's not the aching, empty feeling I've come to expect. When Angel left, I felt like my whole world had tipped on its axis. Like all the air had been sucked out of the room and I couldn't catch my breath. I'd cried for days. Weeks, maybe.

These tears aren't like that.

They run the gamut. Everything from confusion and genuine sadness to pure, unadulterated relief. My thoughts keep coming back to one, singular thought.

 _I don't have to lie anymore._

At least, not to Riley.

Not to myself.

When the tears finally stop, drying in long, salty trails down my cheeks, I feel exhausted. I'm going to have to explain what's happened between Riley and me to everyone tomorrow. I can't imagine it'll go over all that well.

Everyone really liked Riley. Even Xander had come around.

 _And Dawn._

I groan, lifting my hands up and pressing my palms into my swollen eyelids.

If Dawn hadn't hated me before, she will now.

I'm almost asleep when I hear it. In my groggy state, at first I swear I'm imagining things. But then it happens again, a few more times.

A clicking sound, a light tapping. It happens twice more, but seems to stop when I sit up in bed. I listen harder, waiting.

Nothing.

Just when I'm starting to think I had to have imagined it, it happens again, louder this time, and I whip my head toward the window beside my bed.

I see it.

A rock. A small rock just hit the bottom of my window sill.

I frown, brows knitting together. "What the…"

I get up, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand and walk a little unsteadily over to the window, undoing the latch and pushing it up. I lean over, looking down.

My pulse starts to race.

I'm seeing things. I have to be.

I blink rapidly a few times, but the image below me doesn't go away.

 _You've_ got _to be kidding me._

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" I hiss in a stage whisper, still quiet, but loud enough that I'm certain he hears me.

Spike stares up at me, hands on his hips, leather duster swirling around his legs. He cocks his head, azure eyes gleaming, glaring in the moonlight.

"Could ask you the same question, Slayer."

I frown at him, feeling confused.

And like an idiot, leaning halfway out my window, whisper yelling at a vampire who tried to kill me a few weeks ago like he's Romeo.

"What are you talking about?"

Spike narrows his eyes. "We gonna chat this out, or what?"

Again, so much wrong with that sentence I don't know where to begin.

I shake my head, still not fully understanding.

Because this is Spike, Captain Peroxide himself, throwing rocks at my window and demanding we have a _chat_?

 _Wigging. Wigging to the amount of ten._

"Again," I whisper angrily, "I say _what_ are you talking about?"

Spike's eyebrows shoot up, his tongue darting out to run along his bottom lip.

My eyes widen with understanding

 _No._

No, no.

This is the _opposite_ of what I wanted. This is not forgetting it ever happened, not filing it away securely in the Never Happened box in the back of my brain.

This is dealing.

I don't want to deal.

I steel my gaze, staring down at him with blazing eyes. "Go home, Spike."

Spike shakes his head, begins pacing back and forth in the grass.

"Not until you explain what happened back there. Is this your new strategy? Drive Spike round the bloody bend?" He barks a short, humorless laugh. "Cause I've gotta tell you," he stops pacing, turning to glare back up at me, "it's workin'."

" _Nothing_ happened," I say quickly, bringing my eyes up, darting glances from side to side. The street appears empty, but I can't take the chance that someone, _anyone_ , might hear. I bring my eyes back to his, adopting my most threatening tone. " _Nothing_."

"Oh, I see," he purrs, leering up at me. "Ashamed, are you?"

I grit my teeth, jaw clenching. His words hit a nerve, but not the way he intends them to.

Am I ashamed? Sure.

Yes.

But I'm more ashamed because I'm _not_ ashamed. Disgusted because I'm _not_ disgusted.

I don't want to think too much about it. The whole thing kind of hurts my head.

So I pull myself back into the room, repeat my words from a moment ago, trying for my most Slayer-like glower. "Go. _Home_." I reach up, putting my hands on the window sill, preparing to shove it back down into place. "I won't tell you again."

Without another word, I slam the window shut. I drop to the ground, spinning as I do, pressing my back into the wall below the glass.

I drop my head into my hands, trying to calm my breathing. My pulse is going crazy.

Maybe half a second passes before I hear Spike shout, "This isn't over, Slayer."

Loud enough that I can clearly hear him through the closed window, but maybe not quite loud enough to have woken Mom or Dawn.

 _Thank God for small favors._

I sit like this for a long time, back pressed into the wall, head in my hands. Long after my tingles have subsided. Long after the sun starts to creep up over the horizon. Eventually, my neck starts to pinch and I sigh, grudgingly pushing myself up to a standing position.

A shower. That's what I need. Everything always feels clearer after a nice, hot shower.

I strip off my jacket, unlace my shoes, drop them both on the floor beside my bed and head for the bathroom. Turning the hot water dial all the way over, I slump against the wall, letting the weight of everything that's happened tonight settle in my mind. Everything with Spike. Everything with Riley. On top of all that, the fight with the Lei-Achs. Dawn. My Mom.

It's too much for me to sort through right now. I need sleep. I need this shower, and I need to sleep, and I need to just deal with all this later.

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger.

 _Much, much later._

When steam starts to swirl up over the top of the shower curtain, I reach down, pinch the hem of my top with the intention of whipping it over my head. I freeze, looking down when my fingers come in contact with the ripped fabric.

I finger it absently, Spike's words ringing in my ears as I stare at the long tear.

 _"_ _This isn't over, Slayer."_

No.

I have a big, bad feeling it's only just begun.


	8. Chapter 8

Spike comes back to the house three more nights that week.

It's pretty much a repeat performance of the first time, the night I'd ended things with Riley.

Worse though, more confusing, because he seems to always show up and wake me out of one of the dreams. It's much more difficult to tell him to leave when my brain is full of dream Spike and his sinful lips.

Even harder now that I have the actual memory to enforce it.

Still, I manage. If only for the sake of my own sanity.

And saving face.

It goes pretty much the same way each time. There's the sound of rocks against the window, and I wake up, go to the window, see Spike pacing down by the large tree out front. He yells at me, I yell back. He demands an explanation, I threaten him, tell him to go home. He refuses. I slam the window.

He eventually leaves, and that's when I get up to do my second patrol.

Three nights in a row, it goes exactly like this. The reality of the situation, how completely and majorly strange it all is, I don't think is lost on either of us.

I never go downstairs. Never even think to go outside, deal with him in too close a proximity. Likewise, Spike never makes a move to enter the house and deal with me too closely, either.

He could, if he decided to. I've never revoked his invitation, although I have no idea if _he_ knows that or not.

And I've made a conscious effort lately not to think too much into the reason _why_ that is. I've come up with all kinds of explanations for it over the past few days. None of them make much sense, and they're all pretty far with the stretchiness. The truth is probably light years simpler.

Tonight, if he shows up again, will make the fourth in a row.

I can't sleep. I don't know if it's because I'm anticipating his arrival, or if it's because I don't want to deal with the wiggy feeling I get when I wake up and trade dream Spike for the real thing.

I lay awake, staring up at my ceiling, waiting for the tell tale clicking sound, the tingles I'll get down my spine.

They don't come.

After a while, I find myself getting up off my bed and walking over to the window. I know he isn't there. I would have felt him if he were. Still, there's a small piece of me that's halfway expecting to see the bleached head of hair and the curling puff of smoke rising up from under the tree.

There's nothing.

I tell myself that I'm relieved, but there's a nagging little niggle in the back of mind that tells me my relief feels a lot like disappointment.

I tell it that it's wrong.

"This is a joke right?" Xander asks, looking like he feels torn between laughter and tears. "Of the funny, ha-ha variety?"

Turns out, it wasn't Dawn I'd had to worry about talking to about Riley leaving.

"No, Xand," I say, sighing, sitting down beside him at the research table inside the Magic Box. "For the fourth and final time, not a joke."

So far, everyone else has been on the supportive side. Granted, it isn't like I've bothered to tell anyone why we actually broke up. Most of them assumed it had to do with Mom's sickness and me being all with the wanting to be alone lately.

When I'd first told Willow that Riley had left, she'd been quiet for a long time. After a minute, she'd made sort of a vague reference to thinking it could have been something to do with my dreams, but I stopped that line of thought before it could even get going. Probably too forcefully. I'm sure she could see the panic written all over my face, but she never said anything else about it.

Which is good. The last thing I need is anyone figuring out what's happened between Spike and I, let alone even _thinking_ about it.

 _I_ don't even want to think about it.

That doesn't mean I haven't been.

It's actually kind of been all I've thought about since that night in Spike's crypt. And the whole forgetting it ever happened thing? Kind of hard to do, what with the nightly visits from both Dream _and_ Real Spike.

Though it has been two days now since the last time Spike showed up at the house, which is good. Great, even.

Though I still have a feeling this thing between us, whatever it is, isn't over. Spike isn't the I-give-up, I'll-just-go-stand-over-here-and-leave-you-alone-now type. I'm under no delusions that just because he's stopped the whole _Say Anything_ routine means he's forgotten about what happened.

Means he isn't still expecting to "chat it out" with me.

Not that I'm planning to chat with him, or do anything else with him for that matter. Because I'm most definitely not. That way lies an ocean of bad.

The only saving grace in all this mess is that, with Riley gone, I don't feel that weird guilt thing in my stomach anymore.

Except for right now, looking at Xander's puppy dog expression.

"I don't get it, Buff. You guys were so great together!" He looks over toward Anya. "Weren't they so great together?"

I make a face at him, but he doesn't notice.

Anya shrugs, looking at me. "Not as great as us–"

"Exactly," he says, cutting her off, pointing a finger at her. " _Better_ than great." He turns back to me. "This isn't happening." He puts his hands out in front of him. "I refuse to believe this is happening."

From behind the bookshelf to my left, Giles sighs.

I think at this point he's as sick of hearing about Riley as I am.

"Yes, Xander," he chides, coming around the shelf toward us, a small stack of books in his hands. "Because refusing to believe that something isn't happening will prevent it from occurring."

I look up at Giles, expression thoughtful. "We should try that during the next apocalypse."

He chuckles appreciatively.

If Xander's concerned over our mocking him, he doesn't show it.

"I just don't understand," he murmurs, more to himself than to me. His brow is furrowed. "I thought things were going so well."

I don't want to talk about this. Talking about it just makes everything else more real.

Dealing with Riley being gone means I have to address the real reasons our relationship fell apart.

Namely, me. And I've never exactly been self-reflection girl.

Particularly when that self-reflection keeps repeatedly leading me down a path to someone who hasn't _got_ a reflection.

"Well, thing's weren't," I say dismissively, pulling a book off the pile in front of me and setting it down with a thud. "Can we just drop it?"

It comes out snippier than I want it to, but my patience is running on the short side with everyone these days. Riley might be gone, and I've successfully managed to avoid Spike while on patrol…for the past couple days, at least.

But I'm still not sleeping. Mom's still getting her headaches. The doctor's still don't know what's wrong. Dawn's still being a royal pain in the butt.

So I'm _still_ on edge.

My nerves feel like they're always one thoughtless comment or poorly timed joke away from snapping in two.

On the plus side, my training's been going better than ever.

 _Go figure._

Xander looks chastened by my small outburst, and I feel kind of bad for snapping at him. It isn't his fault I don't want to discuss Riley…or the reason for our breakup.

I'm still not sure I know exactly what happened, anyway. I'm leaning toward thinking it was doomed from the beginning.

"Here, Buffy," Giles says, bringing me back to the present. He reaches over and places a small leather booklet in front of me, over the book I'd already grabbed. "I think you'll find this one particularly interesting."

I look down at it, making a face.

More studying.

Not my favorite part of my new training regime, I'll admit. I'd much rather be beating the crap out of the heavy bag in the back.

 _At least I can hit that._

I sigh, turning my attention to the book in front of me and flipping it open to the front page.

I read down a few lines, and immediately wrinkle my nose.

"Gertrude?" I ask, turning my eyes up to Giles. " _Gertrude_ the vampire slayer?

He gives me a sardonic eyebrow raise.

"I hardly think you're in any position to be making fun of another Slayer's name," he looks at me pointedly over the rims of his glasses "do you?"

I fight the urge to stick my tongue out at him, opting instead to be Mature Buffy and just keep reading.

All these Watcher diaries look the same. Old, leather bound. Dusty pages full of teeny tiny handwriting I can barely make out without the help of a magnifying glass.

There's something really nice about them, though. First hand accounts of all the other Slayers that came before me, written by those who probably knew them best. I'm sure those other Slayers had been better about the 'no friends, no family, no problems' rule than I have been, so it's more than likely their Watchers were the closest thing that most of them had to either.

And when I think about Quentin Travers and the Council, that suddenly seems very sad.

I used to wonder if the other Slayers, the ones before me, had had relationships with their Watchers like the one I have with Giles. I think I always figured that they didn't. I'm sure most of them would have lived longer, otherwise.

Like Gertie here. Her Watcher writes about her with about as much affection as a nail would about a hammer, and she barely made it to seventeen.

She had style, though.

"Ooo, bow and arrow," I murmur, turning to look across the room at Giles. "How come we never trained with a bow and arrow?"

He looks up from his shelf stocking to glance my way. "We trained with the cross bow instead."

I frown, brow furrowing. "Why didn't we do both?" I ask. "I mean, Slayer here. Aren't I supposed to be good with all things pointy and wooden?"

Giles nods absently, turning his attention back down to his merchandise log. "I believe I tried to get you to train in archery, Buffy. You said it was…what was the phrase…" he pauses meaningfully, eyeing me over the shelf, "'way Old School'."

I frown. I don't remember this, exactly, but I guess it sort of sounds like something I'd say. I don't know why, though. I like the idea of using a bow and arrow.

Like Robin Hood, or something.

Or a hunter.

That's what Dracula had called it, what I do when I slay. What I did over the summer. Hunting.

But that was before the dreams had started, and before I'd realized that I've been only halfway fighting the vampires I come across on patrol.

I'd hoped that getting back into the swing of training with Giles would help with that last part at least, but I'm not sure it has. Sure, I've learned a few things about the past Slayers. I've come pretty close to perfecting the ideal jab, cross, uppercut combination. I've even managed to get enough power behind my roundhouse that I can knock the heavy bag entirely off its chain.

But it doesn't help. It doesn't translate into the field.

I look back down at the book in my hands, thumbing the pages thoughtfully.

Maybe training in a new weapon will help me get back into the full Slayer headspace?

"Okay," I say, drawing the word out, looking back at the sketch of the bow and arrow in the diary, "but that was like…three years ago. Everything old is new again."

"That ought to make you feel good." Anya pipes up, beaming at Giles, who forces a smile back and mutters something distinctly British under his breath.

"Why the sudden interest in archery?" He asks, stepping back around toward me.

I lift the diary that I've been reading, waving it in front of him by way of explanation.

"Our pal Gertrude," I say as he takes the journal from me. "Her weapon of choice."

Giles re-reads the passage I've just been through quickly, his eyes scanning the page rapidly.

"Alright, well," he snaps the journal shut, sets it back down in front of me, "if it's something you're interested in we can certainly look into it."

I smile at him, thinking in my head that long-range weapons mean less risk of getting up close and personal with a certain bleached blonde.

A certain bleached blonde I know isn't going to keep letting me get away with not giving him the answers he wants.

And that, in my book, is definitely of the good.

Now.

Now would have been a really great time for that bow and arrow. Or a cross bow.

Anything long range, really. Anything other than the stake I brought with me tonight.

The one that's now stabbing me in the stomach.

I stare down at it, blinking. Is this what it feels like? That solit second before they turn to dust at my fingertips, is it this kind of pain they feel?

I almost can't believe how much it hurts.

I've been staked.

 _A vampire staked me._

Through the haze of the pain, still staring blankly, I think back to two years ago. The man Faith murdered, how she'd driven a stake through his heart thinking he was a vampire.

God, I'd never even considered what kind of pain he might have been in.

I think about the very first vampire I ever fought. The one with Merrick. I'd stabbed him in the abdomen once before I'd been able to find the heart. Probably close to where I've just been stabbed.

I'd almost forgotten about that. That first dusting feels like it was lifetimes ago, not just years. I can't remember the last time I've struggled to stake a vampire. Just your average, run of the mill vamp. Not a fledging, no…but not anything special, either.

Gasping, I reach down and grip the stake in both hands, yanking it out of my side. There's another sharp, stabbing pain as the wood wrenches away from the wound and I can't help but cry out.

My head is swimming.

It's more than the pain, though. More than the shock I'd felt when that vamp had twisted my hand around and brought my own stake down.

It's fear I feel now. Real, desperate fear. The kind I haven't truly felt since I was fifteen years old.

I have to get out of here.

I force myself to look up, whipping my head from side to side. Through bleary eyes I struggle to find the vampire that's stabbed me. Everything seems darker now than it had a moment ago.

Panicked, frantic, I decide to make a run for it.

But I can't run. Not well, and not fast. The pain in my side gets worse with every stride, sending searing jolts up through my chest and down into my arm.

I'm losing a lot of blood.

I only make it a few feet before the Gene Simmons vampire jumps out in front of me.

I gasp, stumbling back.

"You're going? But we were having so much fun a minute ago!"

Wincing in pain, I do my best to raise the bloodied stake I'm still holding in my hand. I barely get it chest height before the vampire lunges, easily knocking it out of my hand, smacking me hard enough to send me flying into a wide mausoleum wall to my left.

I hit with a smack, my head snapping back and cracking against the stone. I double over, gasping, clutching at the wound on my stomach. I watch in horror, through the delirious onset of pain, as the vampire reaches down and plucks the stake from the grass. He whirls on me, leering, and this…this is it.

How many times have I thought about this moment?

I've experienced it myself once before. How many times have I been warned about it, read about it in the Watcher's diaries? Maybe not _this_ moment, exactly. No one is ever around after the Slayer dies to tell us what her last thoughts were.

But I'm pretty sure they were all fairly similar. Probably exactly what I'm thinking right now.

 _I'm going to die._

It's not exactly a surprise. I always knew I would, knew being the Slayer would kill me, just like it did all the other's before. That's part of the package, right up there with the uber strength and the freaky fast healing.

I've always known. I'd just kind of hoped it would be to someone more…deserving. Someone that had beaten me fair and square in a real, honest fight.

Not this KISS reject who just got lucky.

But it's him who's approaching me now, stake in hand.

I do my best to stand up straight, to face what's coming. It's only death.

I'm certain he can smell the fear on me, though. Hear my heart beat pounding against my ribs.

The wicked leer on his face tells me as much.

He raises the stake, only a few steps away from me, and I brace my back against the stone wall behind me in anticipation.

It happens so fast, so unbelievably fast, that I'm not sure it's actually happened at all until it's over.

There's a loud roar, a flash of white, swirling black. The blur rushes past me, tackling the rocker vamp to the ground a good ten feet away from me.

I know its Spike even before I have a chance to focus in on him. I don't know exactly how, it's just there. Knowledge. It might have something to do with the scent of his cigarettes in the air as he whirls past me, or maybe it's that the tingles I get with him are different.

I just know.

I try to keep my eyes on the pair as they grapple in the grass, but my vision keeps blurring. When my legs start to give out, I let them, sinking down onto the ground, my back still pressed against the mausoleum. I press my hands to the wound, doing what I can to stop the bleeding.

Even in the dark, I can see it, feel the sticky, thick liquid seeping past my fingers.

I've got to get home. Get some real pressure on it.

I look up again when I hear it. The whirring, keening sound of a vampire turning to dust.

My heart stops, clenches in my chest when I don't immediately see Spike. But then the dust settles, and he's there.

He's staring at me with narrowed eyes, his chest heaving with unneeded breath. The expression on his face is one I don't think I've ever seen before. There's rage there, and probably indignation. But something else, too.

He's gripping the bloody stake in his hand like he isn't finished using it. The realization of what's just happened isn't lost on either of us as we continue to stare at each other.

Spike's just saved my life.

At least, I'm pretty sure that's what just happened. My head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton and I've lost enough blood that there's every possibility I could be hallucinating.

But then he speaks, and I don't think I could hallucinate that.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" He asks, his tone a weird mix of anger and something that might be disappointment.

I don't know what I'd expected.

Maybe an 'are you okay' from the mortal enemy you've just recently been kissing and arguing out your bedroom window with is a little too much to ask.

I open my mouth, thinking I'm going to answer him. No words come out. My eyelids suddenly grow very heavy, and his image starts to go fuzzy. My lashes flutter.

I know this feeling.

I have about 30 seconds before I black out.

My head slumps to the side, and I just barely hear Spike's muttered "Oh, bloody hell" before the world around me goes dark.

I sit on the edge of my bed the next morning, lifting my shirt up and poking absently at the bandage now covering the wound on my stomach.

I still don't feel 100% clear on what happened last night.

I remember seeing Spike. Remember him dusting the vamp. I definitely remember passing out. I even remember coming to on the front porch, just as the sun was starting to come up.

Little fuzzy on how I got there, though.

The wound had bled entirely through the bottom half of my sweater. I'd managed to get myself upstairs and into the bathroom, where we keep our first aid kit. Granted, all we had was some gauze and a little tube of anti bacterial cream…probably not as ideal as the stitches I could have used.

But there was no way I was going to wake up Mom and get her all worried over nothing. No way I was setting foot in the emergency room.

So, I lost some blood.

It's not like I've never dealt with worse.

When I'd pulled off my sweater to reach the wound, I'd stopped short.

My black scarf, the scarf I'd been wearing last night, had been wrapped around my waist, tied off in a knot, pressing over the worst of the stake's damage. It had effectively stemmed the bleeding, even if it wasn't the most impressive bandaging job I'd ever seen.

It was Spike. It had to have been. No one else could have known. No one else had been there when it happened.

As I press the fresh bandage down tighter over the wound, I think back to the conversation we'd had the other night in his crypt.

He'd denied my claim about the Lei-Ach demon without batting an eye. Sure, he'd admitted to killing the stupid thing eventually. But the way he'd reacted when I'd barely but insinuated he might have been trying to help us…

He'd denied it. But the denial had sort of come out of nowhere.

He'd killed that Lei-Ach demon.

He dusted the vamp last night.

I'm about 90% sure he carried me home after I'd passed out, and more than likely did the crude wrap job, too.

It might mean nothing. It probably does.

If I asked him why he did what he did last night he'd probably say something along the lines of 'if anyone's going to kill you, it's gonna be me' or something else equally as piggish.

It might be true.

 _Why_ he did it doesn't really matter, anyway.

And as I push myself to my feet and start to get dressed, I almost believe that.

I shake my head, shoving all thoughts of Spike and what he did, why he did it, out of my head. Right now, there are more important things to deal with.

Like the fact that I'm still here, but last night…it was the closest call I've ever had. I need to see Giles, talk to him about what happened.

I finger the bandage through my t-shirt again, eyes going over to the stained black scarf I've tossed in the wastebasket.

 _Though there are probably a few things I'll leave out._

Giles is about as horrified as I expect him to be when I tell him about what happened the previous night. Luckily, no one else is around to hear the story.

He insists on taking patrol for me tonight. I gladly accept.

I'm not in any big hurry to get back out there after the close call I've had.

I also don't know if I want to run the chance of running into Spike. As if things weren't already becoming wig worthy and awkward enough with the dreams and the kissing and the sort of nightly rock throwing, on top of everything else now I owe him my life.

Me. The vampire slayer.

Owes her life to a master vampire.

That is, if he'd ever admit to saving me in the first place.

I leave that part of the story out when Giles asks me how I got home.

"So, it was an ambush then?" He asks me, pouring himself a steaming cup of tea.

I chew on my bottom lip, looking down.

"This was just one vampire, Giles," I tell him, feeling embarrassed. "Nothing special. I don't even think he was that old."

When I look up, I don't see the shock or the disappointment I expect. It's more like confusion, like he isn't fully understanding what I'm saying.

"Well, surely there was something—" He stops short at the look I give him, clearing his throat.

"I don't know what happened, Giles," I say, sighing. My shoulders sag. "I slipped up. I got cocky. I…" I trail off, squeezing my eyes shut.

I think about the feeling I'd had last night. The honest to God fear, the absolute certainty that I was going to die.

And what would have happened to Mom and Dawn then?

It's something I haven't allowed myself to consider. All these weeks I've been doubling up on patrols, and really only halfway doing my job. I think about the punches I'd last thrown at Spike, compare them to the ones I throw during my sparring sessions in back.

I rack my brain, thinking back to last night. I can't remember if I'd even been using my full strength or not.

I might be training better, training harder than ever. But it isn't translating.

I'm not allowing it to.

"We have the journals, Buffy," Giles says, jarring me out of my thoughts. I look at him. "There might be something in them that can help."

I turn my gaze down to the table, subconsciously laying a hand on my stomach, feeling for the wound through my coat.

It's a stretch. He knows it, and so do I.

It's the exact thought I'd had the night before, that the diaries don't have anything in them about those final moments.

Still, I don't think it would hurt to look a little more. Dig a little deeper.

And there's something so comforting about talking through this with Giles, trying to work through a problem with him, just the two of us.

I nod and take my coat off, setting it down and head straight for the stack of Watcher's diaries. I bring a pile of them over to the counter with me, spread them out and begin to read.

I'm not sure how many hours go by, exactly. All I know is it was mid-morning when I arrived at the Magic Box, and it's most definitely nearing dusk outside now.

I shut the book I've been looking at with a huff and drop it onto the counter top.

"I mean, where are the details of the Slayer's last battle?" I ask, frustrated, glancing over toward Giles. It's a question I've asked myself more than once, even just in the last 24 hours. It seems especially prudent now. "What made _that_ fight special. Why did she lose?"

Giles frowns at me.

"You didn't lose last night, Buffy," he says earnestly, in his best encouraging voice. "You just—"

"Got really close."

We share a poignant look, and then I break eye contact, glancing down. I pick another book up, idly opening it.

"I realize every Slayer comes with an expiration mark on the package. But I want mine to be a long time from now." I look up at him through my lashes, voice small. "Like a Cheeto."

I see the beginnings of a smile quirk his lips, but his eyes are still grave.

"If there were just a few good descriptions of what took out the other Slayers," I continue, gesturing to the book in my hand, "maybe it would help me to understand my mistake, keep it from happening again."

Giles nods, his expression one of understanding.

"Yes, well," he removes his jacket, drops down onto the stool catty corner from me, "the problem is after a final battle, it's difficult to get any…" he trails off, thinks, then tries again, "well, the Slayer's not…" he swallows, "she's rather…"

 _Dead._

I know what it is he's trying to say, even if he is being exceptionally Watchery about the whole thing.

It's kind of sweet though, how much he's struggling to say the word in front of me.

I let him off the hook.

"It's okay to use the D word, Giles," I say, giving him a small, wry smile.

He looks grateful.

"Dead," he says, then quickly, "And hence not very forthcoming."

I frown at him, brow furrowing as I glance down at the stacks of leather bound diaries on the counter top in front of me.

"Why didn't the Watcher's keep fuller accounts of it?" I ask, gesturing widely to the books to my left. "The journals just stop."

Giles seems to consider this for a moment, pausing to think before responding.

"Well, I suppose if they're anything like me," he begins, turning his face away from mine, "they just find the whole subject too—"

"Unseemly?" I interject, cutting him off. I look down, shaking my head. "Damn. Love ya, but you Watchers are such prigs sometimes."

There's a beat, and when he speaks again, his voice is much softer.

"Painful…" My gaze shoots back up to his, and his eyes search mine meaningfully. "I was going to say."

I'm immediately chastened, feeling silly for what I've just said.

There's a poignant pause, a long silent moment that passes between us, and we both look away again.

"But you're right," Giles says hurriedly, once the silence is verging on uncomfortable. "Accounts of the final battles would be very helpful. But there's no one left to tell the tales."

It's his words that spark my memory.

I feel my eyes widen with understanding, and Giles looks at me curiously.

"What?" He asks, clearly wondering what it is he's said.

My plan to go back to avoiding Spike is going to have to wait another night.

I need to pay the Slayer of Slayers a visit.

"Yes, there is," I say, shutting my book and dropping it to the table with a thump. "Someone left, I mean."

I carefully hop off the stool I've been sitting on and move around the counter, back toward the bench I've thrown my coat over. I wince a little when I put it on, the movement stretching my wound slightly.

"Buffy?"

I turn back toward him, buttoning my coat up.

" _Spike_ , Giles," I remind him, a little impatiently. Wasn't he the one who'd discovered this? "He's killed two Slayers."

I watch as his eyes light with understanding the same way mine had a moment ago. Then his expression darkens slightly, and he looks more confused than before.

I don't give him a chance to ask whatever it is he's thinking before I'm scooting around him, heading as quickly as I can toward the door.

But his thoughts are quicker than my legs right now.

"What are you planning to do?" He calls after me, just as I reach the door.

It's a good question. One I don't really have an answer to.

A few hours ago, I'd been content to avoid Spike for the rest of my life if I needed to. Now, it feels like the most important thing in the world, to get these answers from him. How did he do it? How did he kill those other Slayers?

 _Why didn't he let that vampire last night kill_ me?

I need a reason, another excuse to seek Spike out. One that doesn't involve my dreams, or anything having to do with what happened the other night.

I put my hand on the handle, pausing just long enough to turn and cast a knowing glance over my shoulder.

"I'm going to make him show me how."


	9. Chapter 9

When I reach Spike's crypt, I start to panic.

I haven't thought this through. Not really. I'd left the Magic Box with so much determination, convinced that this was a great idea.

Not just a great idea, but necessary. _Essential_ , even.

And maybe, on some level, it is. If I want to understand my mistake, get to the bottom of what happened with that vampire last night, then I need to know how the other Slayers were taken out.

And the only someone who I have access to who knows anything about that _is_ Spike.

Seems simple enough.

And it would be, if I'd never had these stupid dreams.

If I'd never let said stupid dreams get to me.

If I'd never kissed Spike.

Because I had. Kissed Spike.

It had been me last week in his crypt. I've had more than enough time to think about it, to consider what happened.

I'll never admit it. I've barely just admitted it to myself. But yeah, it had been me.

Me with the dreaming and the distraction and the smooching and the wanting of the evil blood-sucking fiend.

The blood sucking fiend who's been demanding explanations that I'm not willing to give.

Did I think showing up here with a wad full of cash was going to be enough to make all that go away?

So, yeah. I'm panicking.

I stare at the crypt door, the one I've kicked in so many times, and I find myself frozen to the spot.

How exactly had I planned on this going? Did I really think I could just walk in there, demand that he help me, rough him up a little and that would be it?

If anything, the last month or so's taught me that it's never, ever that easy. Not with Spike.

Not anymore.

I've done a supreme-o job making sure of that.

I bite down on my lip, debating on whether or not I should drop this whole thing now and go back to Giles.

He'd looked at me like a crazy person when I'd said I was going to Spike on this. Going to Spike for what boils down to advice on how to keep myself alive.

He'd probably been more right than he could even realize.

I take a deep breath, exhale slowly, and make my decision.

But when I turn to leave my hand catches in my coat, brushing roughly against the bandage covering my stake wound. I freeze, sucking in a gasp, pressing my fingers against it to stem the surge of pain flooding my stomach.

Weirdly enough, it makes me think about Mom. The pain.

I mean, it makes me think of last night too, sure. My close call.

The closest.

But more than that, it reminds me that I got close to abandoning her last night. Her and Dawn both. I'd let my guard down, gotten quippy, over-confident, and I'd almost been beaten.

I glance back over at the crypt.

This thing with Spike, whatever it is…no matter how much it wigs me, it can't be more important than staying alive. Can't be more important than my Slaying.

Mom needs me, and I can't allow what happened last night to happen again. Spike has the information I need, the information I can't get anywhere else.

And I'm going to get it.

So I won't think about it. I can go one night without thinking about it, any of it. The dreams, the kissing, his weird hero act.

Tonight will be about this vampire and two Slayers, and neither of them will be me.

Feeling a renewed sense of confidence, I march over and, just for good measure, kick in the crypt door.

It feels good.

When I step inside, Spike's standing over by his television set. I can't see exactly what he's doing, his back is turned to me.

I watch his shoulders stiffen when he senses me behind him.

"Well, well," he drawls, slowly turning around to face me. His scarred eyebrow is raised. "Was wonderin' how long it'd take for you to—"

"I have a proposition for you," I cut him off, not giving him a chance to finish the thought. I don't know for sure what he was going to say, but if it's anything like what he'd asked me those nights earlier in the week then I want to nip it in the bud.

 _Before the bud nips me._

Spike blinks at me, a wry little smirk ghosting the corner of his lips. I cross my arms over my chest and tilt my chin defiantly.

I'm calm. This is fine.

I can do this.

"Do you now?" He all but purrs, dropping his gaze down, eyeing me through his lashes.

I swallow hard, hoping he doesn't notice.

He takes a predatory step forward.

"And what kind of _proposition_ might this be?"

His voice is low, honeyed and dripping with innuendo.

How he manages to make everything sound dirty is beyond me. It's pervy, and gross...and disturbing.

Doesn't stop the little tingle from shooting down my spine, though.

I open my mouth to give him my patented 'you're a pig, Spike' routine, but the words freeze on my lips. There's something else on his face, something other than the leering suggestiveness I've come to expect from him.

It wigs me a little, but I decide to ignore it.

"I need information," I say finally.

The haughty expression on Spike's face flickers for a moment, but he recovers quickly.

"About?" He asks, walking over to where his leather duster is thrown over the back of his chair. He digs a hand into his pocket, pulls out his cigarettes.

I turn my body toward his.

"Slayer's. You killed two of them."

His eyes whip to mine, dark brows coming together in confusion. "I did."

I raise my chin up, going for my best Slayer look. "You're going to show me how."

There's a beat as Spike stares at me, his brows still drawn. He keeps looking at me as he puts the cigarette between his lips, lights it.

Finally, he snaps the lighter closed and asks, "What's in it for me?"

I dig in my coat pocket and pull out the roll of cash I've stuffed there. Spike's eyes glance over at it, but they don't light up the way they usually do at the prospect of easy money.

His expression is unreadable.

"This about what happened last night?" he asks, his tone not quite reaching the casual note I think he's trying for.

My eyes shoot up to his face.

He snaps his mouth shut, looking like he regrets bringing it up almost immediately. Also looking a little like he hopes I won't take the bait.

He's in luck. I hadn't planned on touching last night with a ten-foot pole.

We look away from each other at the same time.

Things are awkward now.

Normally I'd solve the problem by popping him once in the face, but it hurts when I raise my arms too high. And I'm just not feeling very punch-Spike-in-the-face happy, as of late.

When the silence drags on for another long, uncomfortable minute I break down and speak.

"Look, do you want the cash or not?" I ask, tightening my arms around my chest, doing my best to sound huffy. I glare at him. "Or are you just going to keep wasting my time."

Spike considers me, sucking his cheeks in, lips pursed.

Then he nods, looking down at the stone floor.

"I'll agree to your little proposition," he says, stepping toward me, "but we're gonna do things my way."

His words, the overtly sensual way he says them, sends an involuntarily and unwelcome thrill down my spine.

 _This is going to be a long night._

I cover quickly by shaking my head, tossing my hair over my shoulder.

"What are you talking about?" I ask.

He smirks at me.

"Conditions, Slayer." He steps back, crossing to pick up the bottle of whiskey beside his armchair. "You have yours, I have mine."

There it is again. All that innuendo, the sinful implications.

I feel my cheeks flush and I sigh loudly, exasperatedly, to try and hide it.

I narrow my eyes at him, watching as he takes a pull from the bottle, wipes his mouth and sets it back down.

I have a niggling feeling in the back of my mind I know exactly where this is going.

"Conditions?" I ask, raising a skeptical eyebrow, watching as he casually puts the cigarette back in his mouth. I'm almost afraid of the answer. "What kind of _conditions_?"

Spike glances over at me, pulling the cigarette from between his lips as he exhales a curling puff of smoke.

"You aren't goin' to like everything I have to say," he says, looking at the glowing tip of the cigarette in his hand and not at me, "Don't feature havin' my nose bashed in every time you don't."

 _Oh._

Well, that's not a thing. That's doable.

I can go one night without punching Spike in the face.

Not that I have much say in the matter, anyway. What with the major stab wound and all.

And, you know…the whole not really _wanting_ to hit him issue.

That's neither here nor there.

"Fine." I say quickly, feeling relieved as I uncross my arms and let them fall to my sides.

" _And_ ," he says poignantly, letting me know he isn't finished. He tosses the cigarette butt to the ground and steps on it. "I want answers."

And, _there it is._

My pulse picks up instantly as he turns those indigo eyes back on me, long, dark lashes sweeping up to my face.

I swallow hard, trying to force the lump that's suddenly formed in the back of my throat down.

Think. _Think fast._

"Answers?" I ask, deciding to play dumb. "About what?"

Spike sees through me in an instant.

His eyes flash and he takes a step toward me, coming right into my space. His voice is low when he speaks, looking down at me. "You _know_ what."

He's so close to me.

My lashes flutter when I feel his cool breath fan over my lips, all whiskey and fresh smoke and…

 _God._

It's this place. It has to be. The last time we were here, the last time we were standing this close together…

My eyes snap open and I take a big step back. When I focus in on Spike again, I notice that he looks about as stunned as I feel.

"Not here," I say hurriedly, jumping down to the end of the conversation and skipping everything in the middle. "We aren't doing this here."

I turn my back on him and head for the door. We can't stay here.

I don't trust myself to stay here with him.

"Where then?" Spike asks from behind me.

I toss a glance over my shoulder in time to see him throw his duster on, start heading toward me.

Where. Good question. I rack my brain, thinking of all the places we could go to talk. Not the cemetery, Giles is patrolling. Not the house.

People. We need to be around people.

I watch Spike as he eyes me expectantly, smoothing his hair back, running one, long fingered hand through the gelled platinum curls.

 _Lots of people._

"The Bronze."

I haven't agreed to his second condition, but he doesn't seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn't care, because he shrugs and follows me out of the crypt without another word.

We set ourselves up in a small corner table next to the stairs. It's my choice. The location isn't wide open, you wouldn't be able to see us if you just walked in. But it isn't isolated either. Waitresses and other Bronze frequenters are milling about, so we're safely not with the aloneness.

Spike orders a beer as soon as we sit down.

I glare at him.

He raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"We're not here to drink, Spike."

"No," he agrees, leaning back in his chair. "We're here because you _asked_ me to come here. Because you need my help."

 _No,_ I think, mimicking the cadence of his words in my head, _we're here because I can't be trusted alone in your crypt._

I push the thought aside, frowning, focusing instead on the second part of his sentence.

"I don't _need_ your help."

He blinks at me, eyes going wide, falsely innocent.

"No?" He asks, then shrugs. "Right then."

I watch as he starts to get up to leave, sliding off the stool and taking a step toward the door.

 _Oh, boy._

"Wait," I say quickly, reach across the table without thinking, gripping his wrist in my hand, forgetting for a moment about the puncture wound in my side.

I immediately let go, hissing in pain.

Spike freezes, halfway off the stool, his eyes darting down to where my hand is pressing into my stomach.

Then he looks up at me, smirking.

If I'd held any delusions that we'd be able to get through tonight without talking about it, they're gone now.

"You feelin' alright, Slayer?" He asks, even though he already knows the answer, looking at me through lowered lashes.

I grit my teeth. "Just great."

Spike nods, pushing himself back up onto the stool.

"Great, eh?" He cocks his head to the side, still smirking. "Big talk for a girl who passed out from blood loss not 24 hours ago."

So we're talking about it, then.

 _Good to know._

"Didn't end up losing that much blood," I quip, folding my arms over my chest. "I had a great field nurse."

His eyes flash, the smirk wiped completely off his face.

He doesn't continue with that particular line of thought.

Not that I'd expected him to admit to bandaging me up.

But he sort of has by not saying anything.

There's a pause in the conversation as our waitress returns, placing Spike's beer in front of him and tossing him an overly flirtatious smile.

He grins back.

I roll my eyes.

When she leaves, Spike takes a long sip of his beer before finally turning his eyes back on me. They're different now. Less mocking, maybe.

He sets the mug down and folds his arms in front of him on the table top.

"So," he says, narrowing his eyes slightly, "Wanna explain to me exactly what happened last night, Slayer?"

I lean back in my chair, blinking at him.

It isn't a question I'd expected him to ask. I thought for sure he'd drop the subject after what I said a moment ago.

So I say the first thing that comes to mind that might make him stop asking questions.

"You wanna explain to me why you care?"

That does it.

Spike leans away from me, leaning into the back of his chair. He glares at me. "I _don't._ "

Relieved, sending up a tiny thank you to the PTB, I school my face into its usual disgust.

"And I'm _fine_."

Spike snorts, chuckling darkly.

"Oh, right," he sneers, leaning forward again, "Stuck in a dark corner with a creature you loathe, diggin' up past uglies, 'cause you're fine."

My cheeks flush with heat, frustration pushing itself to the surface.

Spike's always been able to do that. Read me like a book, tell me what I'm thinking before I've even thought it.

It feels worse now, somehow. Maybe because I'm terrified what will happen if he actually _does_ read my mind.

If he did know what I was _really_ thinking.

I set my jaw, going for annoyance.

"Just tell me what I want to know," I say sharply, gritting it out through clenched teeth.

The sooner I get this over with the better.

For both of us.

"You wanna know how I took out those Slayers?" Spike asks, reiterating what I've already told him several times.

I raise my eyebrows, an unspoken 'duh' hanging in the air between us.

His eyes narrow.

"Right then," he murmurs. "We fought. I won. The end. Pay up."

I shake my head. "That's not what—"

"What did you want, pet?" He cuts me off, voice low, leaning his weight onto his arms. "A quick demo? A blow for blow description you can map out and memorize?" He scoffs, turning his eyes away from mine. "'S not about the _moves_ , luv."

His words strike a chord with me. Not only because they're surprising, but the way he says them is different, too. Like he's disappointed about something.

It occurs to me that he's probably just as frustrated with me as I am with him.

More so, actually, because at least I _know_ why I've done what I have.

 _No wonder he's so twitchy._

"What _is_ it about then?" I ask, consciously softening my voice just a little.

Spike doesn't back down, though. His eyes are as intense as I've seen them, burning into mine from across the tiny table.

"I told you," he says, "I agreed to this, so we do it my way." He leans away from me, but keeps his arms and elbows on the table. "We're goin' tit for tat here."

I blink at him. " _What_?"

He rolls his eyes, mutters something I can't quite hear under his breath, then looks back at me.

"Answers, pet. A little of the old 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours'."

He waggles his eyebrows, leering at me.

I feel my cheeks heat again and try my hardest to plaster a look of sincere disgust on my face.

"Were you born this big a pain in the ass?" I snap, keenly aware of the blood rushing in my ears.

Spike just smirks.

"What can I tell you, baby?" He asks, eyes locked on mine as he cocks his head to the side, "I've always been bad."

I swallow against yet another lump in my throat.

 _A very, very long night._

Spike tells me everything.

At least, everything he's willing to tell me. I can tell by the way he zones out every once in a while, the way he looks off into space, like he's reliving it all over again, that he's leaving big chunks out.

But that's okay. As long as we get to the parts with the Slayer slaying.

He tells me about the night he was turned. He tells me about meeting Drusilla, the things she promised him. What her bite felt like. Where he was when he woke up. How different he felt. How much stronger, more powerful.

He said being killed made him feel alive for the first time.

I've never thought of it that way before.

When he gets to the part of the story that includes Angel, things get awkward again.

Of course, he wasn't Angel back then. _Angelus_. All of Spike's stories about him are about Angelus.

It's funny, though. For the longest time after Angel left, any mention of him, unsoulled or otherwise, used to hurt. Like a scab that I'd constantly keep picking at, barely letting it heal over before yanking it open again.

But now, as I listen to Spike, it doesn't hurt. I keep waiting for it and it doesn't come.

On the other hand, listening to Spike talk about Drusilla is making me increasingly more anxious as the night goes on.

I don't think too much into it.

"After that, I was obsessed," Spike's saying, walking around the edge of the pool table. "I mean, to most vampires, the Slayer was the subject of cold sweat and frightened whispers." He takes the last swig of his beer and setting the mug back down. He looks back up at me, smiling. "But I never hid. Hell, I sought her out. I mean, if you're looking for fun, there's death, there's glory and sod all else, right?" He shrugs, looking down. "I was young."

The way he says it, it reminds me just how very old Spike actually is. He'd been turned at the end of the 19th century; he's lived long enough now for more than two full lifetimes.

The things he's seen. Experienced.

It had been the same with Angel, but different, too. Angel always _seemed_ old. He always felt so distant from me, so much more mature. More brooding.

Spike _feels_ young.

It's probably his recklessness.

"So how'd you kill her?" I ask, turning my back on him, gripping the pool cue in front of me with both hands. I look down at the table, sizing up my next shot.

I'm distracted, and I feel him come up behind me a second too late.

"Funny you should ask," he murmurs, his voice suddenly right in my ear as he brings a cold hand around and lays it possessively over my throat.

I whirl around to face him, hands instinctively going to the pool cue so I can raise it as a weapon.

Spike stops me, one big hand on top of mine.

"Lesson the first," he murmurs, blue eyes glittering as they look down at me. "A Slayer must always reach for her weapon."

His grip tightens across my neck just slightly, cool fingers pressed to my bare skin.

I watch mutely as the telltale sound of shifting bones and cartilage reaches my ears, his human face melting away and leaving the yellow-eyed demon behind.

"I've already got mine."

We stare at each other for a long moment, neither of us making a move to pull away. My skin is burning where he's touching it, a small fire starting in the pit of my stomach and spreading up through my chest as I stare into his golden eyes.

Mesmerized.

It's a tense moment, but not for the reasons it should be. I can feel the energy rolling, vibrating off him bit by bit.

Finally, he lets out a small chuckle, shaking his head to shift back to his human guise, and the spell is broken.

"A good thing, too." Spike plucks the pool cue out of my hand. I give it up without a fight, still a little dazed. "Become a vampire, you've got nothing to fear. Nothing but one girl." He stops on the other end of the pool table, looking at me with stormy eyes. "That's you, honey."

He leans forward to line up his shot, takes it. "Back then," his eyes come back up to mine, "it was her."

He tells me about her. The first one, the Slayer during the Boxer Rebellion.

She fought with a sword.

It's how Spike got the scar through his left eyebrow.

This is what I'd wanted to hear. What I'd wanted him to tell me.

So why does listening to him describe the death of this Slayer make my skin crawl?

It has to be the casualness. He talks about the fight with pride, a relaxed sort of arrogance as he describes how he snuffed out my sister Slayer's life.

And what had happened afterwards…

There's something to it, I know. Some wiggy demon psychology, the idea that blood and death and sex are all interrelated, intertwined.

It's more than obvious that Spike feels that way.

I wonder if the thing in me, the thing that makes me the Slayer, feels it too.

"That was the best night of my life," he finishes the story, sucking lavishly on a lime wedge from out of his most recent drink. "And I've had some sweet ones."

He tosses the lime aside and looks over at me.

I'm staring at him. I know I am. Whether or not it's with disgust or with something else, I'm not sure.

So I quickly grimace, drawing my brows down.

Spike sneers. "What are you looking at?"

"You got _off_ on it," I accuse, but it's almost more out of curiosity then it is out of disgust.

He laughs, pushing himself up to his feet.

"Well, yeah." He turns on me, azure eyes narrowed in challenge. "S'pose you're tellin' me you _don't_?"

I don't answer him, instead shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other and raising my eyebrows.

I've gone back to gripping my pool cue tightly, in both hands.

I'm wondering if the reason I don't answer him is because he's wrong, or if it's because he's right.

I've felt it before, that feeling he's described. Faith used to say it, too.

 _Hungry and horny._

I'd denied it.

But it's there, always there, lurking just beneath the surface. The primal urge, the violent, driving force that calls at once for death and control. For comfort and violence.

Felt it, but never acted on it. Never really understood it, or wanted to.

Not until the other night, in Spike's crypt.

And now, as I stand here looking the vampire in question, I feel like my silence is damning.

"How many of my kind reckon you've done?" Spike asks me, his voice a low, rumbling purr as he approaches me from around the other side of the pool table.

I square my shoulders, clearing my throat. "Not enough."

His answering smirk is wicked.

"And we just keep coming." He rounds the table's corner and slows his pace, eyes suddenly going open, earnest, the smirk melting away with each word. "But you can kill a hundred, a thousand, a thousand thousand and the armies of Hell besides and all we need is for one of us," his eyes blaze meaningfully, "just _one_ , sooner or later, to have the thing we're all hoping for."

He's standing right in front of me now, the volume of his voice dropped so slow, so deadly, that I'm almost straining to hear him.

I force myself to hold his gaze, even though the look I see there, all that heat, makes me feel like any second I'll melt into a giant puddle of Slayer shaped goo.

I tilt my chin up, my voice matching his. "And that would be what?"

He sweeps his lashes down slowly, eyes dropping unmistakably to my lips. When he steps forward, my entire body tenses. I inhale sharply, watching his eyes still riveted on my lips, and I'm absolutely certain for one long second that he's about to kiss me.

For a moment I think he thinks the same thing.

But then he steps slightly to the side, pressing himself up against me and flutters his lips right next to my ear.

"One. Good. Day."

 _Ugh._

I put one hand flat on his chest and shove him away from me, cheeks burning. I'm embarrassed that he's managed to take me in again, but more than that, I'm angry.

 _One good day._

It makes me feel sick.

"Hey," He laughs at my reaction, holding his hands up, palms out in surrender. "You asked and I'm tellin'." The smile falls from his face as quickly as it appeared, replaced with a sarcastic leer. "The problem with you, Summers, is you've gotten so good, you're starting to think you're immortal."

Wrong.

He's so completely wrong that it's almost funny. It might have been true a month ago.

No, I'm sure it was.

Over the summer, all the hunting I'd been doing. I'd been toying with the vampires. Goading them into longer fights, testing out cocky new quips.

That isn't what happened last night.

I'm still not sure _what_ happened last night.

"You're wrong," I tell him honestly, fingers curling tighter around my pool cue.

He narrows his eyes in disbelief.

"Then how do you explain this?" He asks quietly, stepping back up to me and laying his hand over my wound.

Not hard. He doesn't hit me there, or even press down too firmly. It's just enough pressure for me to feel the contours of his hand through the thin fabric of my shirt, the same possessive splaying of his fingers he'd done over my neck earlier.

I should shove him away. I know I should shove him away. Smack his hand away from me, step out of his space.

I don't.

We stand there for what feels like forever. He doesn't move his hand away, and I don't ask him to. What I do ask, instead, is the question I'd planning to avoid like the plague. About last night.

The why factor.

"Why'd you do it, Spike?"

I don't clarify what I'm talking about. I can tell he knows _exactly_ what I'm talking about, because his eyes flash.

Where there'd been nothing but curiosity a moment ago there's now genuine anger.

A second later he's pulling his hand back roughly and stepping away from me.

"Lesson's not over," he says, turning to march toward the back door. "Come on."

I follow him out to the alley, letting the heavy door fall shut behind me. I turn to face him and the first thing he does is swing the pool cue I hadn't notice him leave with at me.

I'm caught off guard, but manage to dodge it just in time, grab him around the neck and push him as hard as I can into the chain link fence on the other side of the alley.

"What are you doing?" I ask, breathless, my chest heaving from even that small bit of exertion.

My side is aching.

"Lesson the second," Spike says by way of explanation, leering at me. "Ask the right questions."

I drop my hand from his throat and stumble backward, watching him.

"You want to know how I beat 'em?" He asks, voice low, menacing as he approaches me. "The question isn't 'How'd I win?' The question is 'Why'd they lose?'"

I frown at him, instinctively falling into fighting stance.

"What's the difference?" I ask, genuinely wondering.

Spike lunges at me, using the pool cue in his hand as a staff, aiming it at my throat. He stops it just inches from my skin.

His voice is dangerous when he says, "There's a big difference, luv."

It's something else I've never really thought about.

I react on instinct, the same way I would sparring with Giles, and kick the pool cue out of his hands. He lets it go without a fight, his eyes taking on a wicked gleam. In the dark of the alley, I can't see what color they are.

"How'd you kill the second one?" I ask him, starting to feel a little flushed from our mock fight.

Suddenly, he swings at me again, letting out a loud roar.

I grab his wrist and flip him around, sending him sailing over my shoulder. I pounce before he can even think about getting up, straddling his hips, digging my knees into his rib cage.

I press both hands down as hard as I can over where his heart is, mimicking where I'd place my stake if I had one.

"How'd you kill 'em, Spike?" I ask, voice strained with the effort of pinning him down.

He grits his teeth as he looks up at me, struggling against my weight. "You're not ready to know."

The weight of my body pressed against his is unnerving. It's different here, like this, than the other night. I can feel every inch of him below me, my hair falling in a curtain around my face, seeming to shield us from any outside viewers.

He doesn't think I'm ready to know. Fine.

I'll make him answer a different question.

I lean down a hare closer, my face is only inches from his, and drop my voice is low as I can.

"Then tell me why you saved me."

Spike raises an eyebrow, lifting his head slightly off the ground.

It brings our lips barely a breath away from each other's.

"The better question?" He asks, sweeping his lashes down to my lips, then slowly back up to my eyes. "Why did you _need_ saving."

And without another word, Spike wraps his hands around my upper arms and uses his hips to buck me off, throwing me into a somersault over his head.

He staggers to his feet just as I'm struggling back to mine.

My chest is heaving, my head dazed, as I stare at him.

"I didn't need—"

"I _saw_ it, pet," he cuts me off, lunging for me, throwing two jabs at me in quick succession. I dodge both with little effort. "I was there, yeah? Watched the whole bloody thing." Another jab. "You didn't get bested last night." He swings an arcing hook at my jaw, and I duck again. "You _let_ that vamp get close to you."

He swings at me once more, and this time, I catch his wrist in my hand, stilling it inches away from my face. He doesn't pull away from me right away.

I just stare at him, brows drawn together, trying to figure out if there's any truth to what he's saying. I'd told Giles I'd been beaten. That I'd slipped up.

But is Spike right?

Did I let it happen?

"That's the answer to your question," he says finally, wrenching his arm out of my grasp. "It's peace. That's what I gave to those Slayers. And you're just like them. One day you're goin' to get tired of the dance, luv. Of lookin' over your shoulder all the time. And part of you is gonna start wonderin' about death..." He trails off, voice dropping to a honeyed, seductive whisper. "What's it like? Where does it lead you? Hell, maybe you already are." He chuckles breathily. "Is that it, then?" His eyes blaze. "Is _that_ why?"

The intensity on his face is overwhelming me, but he's on his own train of thought, and I can't keep up. All this talk of death and peace, and letting it happen, and wondering what it would be like to die.

It isn't making sense to me.

I step away from him, shaking my head. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Spike whirls on me, all coiled muscles and wicked smirk.

"Don't you get it?" He asks coldly, a sneering quirk to his lips. "That's the secret. 'S how I beat 'em." He takes a step. "They _let_ me," Then another. "Because they _wanted_ it."

And with the final step, he's maybe three inches away from me.

I feel my breath catch in my throat.

He appraises me openly; eyes raking down my body, making me feel completely exposed. When his gaze meets mine again, he cocks his head to the side.

His voice is husky, oozing sex and innuendo when he finally speaks again.

"Do you want it, Slayer?"

Whether he means to or not, there's a double meaning in his words. The air around us seems to thicken as we stand in it.

There's so much tension. Heat.

Blood lust.

I'd felt like the question was rhetorical, but now I see it. He's waiting for me, expecting an answer.

I don't know what the answer is. I can't think straight.

"No," I finally whisper, knowing it could be a lie.

At least partially a lie.

I don't want to die. I'm not ready. There's too much still to do, too many people that need me here.

But the other part, the other part to his question...

Spike laughs, breath fanning over my lips, stirring a stray strand of hair that's fallen over my face.

He shakes his head.

"Every Slayer wants it," he tells me in a husky whisper, stormy eyes searching mine. "Every Slayer has a death wish."

He turns and steps away from me, and I find myself exhaling the air I've been holding in a whoosh. My head is swimming with Spike's words, the implications. With everything he's told me.

My blood is on fire.

"The only reason you've lasted as long as you have," he's saying now, pacing back toward the chain link fence, "is you've got ties to the world. Mum, your brat kid sister, the Scoobies." He turns back to me. "They all tie you here. But you're just puttin' off the inevitable." He crosses back to me. "Sooner or later, you're gonna _want_ it. And the second," he claps his hands together in front of my face, making me jump slightly, "the _second_ that happens…" his eyes narrow to deadly slits. "You _know_ I'll be there."

I watch him back away from me again, smirking, tongue curling up behind his teeth.

Smug. Impossibly smug.

I narrow my own eyes.

"The way you were last night?" I ask knowingly, bringing it up again.

It had sparked his rage earlier, and it does the same thing now.

His eyes flash, and he growls at me from deep in his chest.

"I didn't _save_ you, pet," he snarls, sneering the word for emphasis. "I'm not your sodding knight in bloody armor. You're the Slayer. I'm a _vampire_. I want you dead just as much as you want me dust. It just wasn't bleeding time yet. I—" He pauses, stopping himself in mid tirade, almost like a new thought has just occurred to him.

I watch as he inhales deeply, his nostrils flare and the cocky glower smoothes back in place.

"And when you want it," he whispers, voice back to the husky whisper, "I'll be there to give it to you."

He knows exactly what he's done. The double meaning, the glint in his eyes.

And that's when I realize.

He hasn't asked me a single question tonight. Not one.

He's answered mine, told me story after story, but not once has he asked me for any of the answers he'd been claiming to want.

The thought occurs to me now as I look at him.

I've been giving him answers all night. Staring at him, touching him, letting him touch me.

I've given myself away countless times, and all without saying a word.

I had hoped it would make me feel dirty. Ashamed, somehow. That I could feel all the things I know I should feel about him knowing.

How I feel. _What_ I feel.

But I don't.

I just feel drawn to him. A moth to a flame. Only worse.

The moth doesn't know any better.

I squeeze my eyes shut, force them open again.

We need to get out of here.

"Get out of my sight, Spike," I hiss at him, one last-ditch effort to prevent total catastrophe. " _Now_."

"Oh," he drawls, "did I scare ya?"

He steps up to me again, our faces so close, looking down at me with that infuriatingly smug expression. "Do something about it. Hit me."

I don't respond to him. Just stand still, fighting to keep my face impassive.

My fingers itch to touch him; maybe to hit him, I don't know.

My hands curl into fists at my sides.

"Come on," he goads, tongue curling up. "One good swing. You know you want to."

But I don't, I realize. I don't want to.

 _And that's the problem._

"I mean it," I say.

And I do.

He has to leave. One of us has to leave.

And at this point I don't think it's going to be me.

Spike doesn't move.

"So do I," he counters, tilting his chin up, offering it out to me. "Give it me good, Buffy. Do it."

Buffy.

 _Buffy._

It's the first time I've ever heard him call me that. Say my name. The first time I can remember him saying it my face, that wasn't during some kind of freaky wicca gone wrong love spell.

It's the first time I've heard him say it since the dreams started. Since I've heard it in my dream. Every night in my dream.

 _"_ _Buffy, I love you."_

"Spike," I say warningly, but my voice comes out too breathy.

I'm not even sure what it is I'm warning him of. I'm not thinking straight. All I can see, all I can feel and smell and taste is Spike.

This is exactly what I'd been trying to avoid in coming to The Bronze.

Maybe this is one of those things. Like the end Riley and my relationship, or Giles eventually muttering the phrase 'Oh, dear' when we're doing research. Or my death.

 _Inevitable._

I watch Spike's eyes dart down to my lips.

And then he reaches forward suddenly and grabs my arms, fingers wrapped so tightly around them I'm sure he'll cut off my circulation. He pulls me roughly toward him, the azure in his eyes swirling, raging with something I haven't see in them before.

Lust. Pure, undiluted lust.

 _He feels this, too._

I don't know for how long. If it started the night I kissed him, or if it's only for right now, in this moment.

But he feels it, too.

"Come on," he murmurs, a heady whisper in the dark. "I can feel it, Slayer." He uses his grip on my arms to pull me tighter against him. His eyes flash as he growls the words, "You know you wanna dance."

I answer him by lunging forward, crushing my lips to his with savage, bruising force.

His reaction is instantaneous.

He growls deep in his throat, one of his arms dropping to wrap around my waist, hauling me body flat against his.

His other hand flies to the back of my neck, fingers twisting and tangling in my hair. He uses his hand to hold me against him, nipping at my bottom lip, tugging on it with blunt teeth until I open for him. Spike's tongue is there a second later, tasting and teasing and claiming me.

He groans against my lips and shoves me backward, hard, into the brick wall behind me.

 _And this is it_ , I think, my back pressed into the brick, my hands twisting in the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him tighter against me.

This is the moment. The decision's been made.

Made by us both.

 _There's no coming back from this._


	10. Chapter 10

There's nothing gentle about this. Nothing soft, or sweet. We tear at each other, hands and nails and teeth clashing in a whirlwind of sensory overload.

I grip his shoulders as tightly as I can, digging my nails into him, keeping his mouth pressed against mine.

His hands slide down my back, gripping my hips, driving me into him. We moan in unison, gasping into each other's mouths when I tilt my pelvis forward, seeking contact, deliberately rubbing myself against the bulge in his jeans.

Then he breaks our kiss violently, pulling away from me, looking down into my face with hazy, lustful confusion. His eyes are black, his chest heaving in time with mine.

"Bloody… _fucking_ hell, what—"

 _No._

I put my hands on either side of his face and drag his lips back to mine, swallowing whatever it is he'd been about to say.

No talking.

I don't want to talk. Don't want to risk any logic breaking through the haze of primal lust, white hot desire that's clouding my mind now.

Don't want anything other than _this_.

His body against mine. His lips, his tongue, the taste and scent of him surrounding me.

I bite down on his lip and the hand he has in my hair twists automatically, pulls harder, just enough to hurt. I moan into him, the same whimper that's part pain and part pleasure passing between our mouths.

My skin is too hot. Too tight. Stretched over my muscles, sinew. Every nerve, every inch of me is reacting to him, calling out to him.

Digging more firmly into his shoulders, scratching at the leather with my nails, I use my momentum to swing us around, reversing our positions so that I'm pinning him against the wall now. I press my body closer to his, kissing him more urgently, with more aggression than before. He gives a little beneath me, letting me mold myself to him.

This is better. This is what I'd needed, this control.

I let my hands feel him. Really feel him, in a way I never would have allowed myself to before. A way I never let myself admit to wanting.

I let my fingers trace over his face, feeling his cheeks down to the hard line of his jaw. It's not a gentle exploration, but hurried, verging on violent, needing to feel all of him at once. Like I'm worried at any moment the spell will be broken and logic will return.

My hands move down his neck, over his shoulders, across the muscles in his chest, finally scraping my nails over his abdomen, reveling in the way they twitch under my touch.

When my hands finally come to rest at the waistband of his jeans, he pulls away from me again.

I open my eyes, blinking up at him. I'm about to say something, I don't know what, when he suddenly grabs me around my arms and spins us around once more.

He slams me back into the brick with enough force that I see _him_ wince.

He doesn't give me time to catch up, to ask a question. Doesn't let me catch my breath before he's pulling at my coat, yanking the buttons open and shoving it away from my shoulders. It drops to the ground, a wool puddle at my feet.

It's cold. Too cold be standing out here in just my sleeveless shirt, the wall rough and cold behind me.

But then he steps toward me and wraps his hands around my upper arms. His stormy eyes meet mine, drop down to my parted lips, then over to his right hand. He focuses on it as he begins to drag both his hands slowly down my bare arms.

And I don't care.

I don't care how cold it is. I don't care that we're in an alley behind The Bronze. I don't care that he's Spike, or that I'm Buffy, or that there are a million and one reasons why I shouldn't do this. That this whole situation is ten tons of flashing, red light _no_.

He steps closer to me and I inhale, dragging in a deep ragged breath of the spicy liquor and cigarette scent and my head goes light.

Oh, _God_ , I don't care.

"Is this it, then?" He asks lowly, ghosting his hands slowly back up my arms, still not looking at me. His eyes are glued to his hands movement, watching as his touch raises little bumps all along my arm.

I tremble beneath his touch, face growing hot, the blood in my veins beginning to boil.

His hands reach my neck as his gaze meets mine again, and he splays both sets of cool, long fingers against my throat. His thumbs come to rest over my wind pipe.

I swallow, keeping my eyes locked on his.

"Do you want it?" He asks me, his voice a seductive murmur.

The double meaning is still there, hidden in the honeyed tone. The promise of death just as sure as the promise of sex. But I know which one he's asking about now. Which meaning he wants me to hear.

He exerts the smallest pressure, the tiniest push with his thumbs against the sensitive skin at my throat.

I shiver.

It would be so easy for him, I realize. Even with the chip. So easy for him to end my life right here, now, in the back alley behind The Bronze. I'd never let him. He knows it, and so do I. Still, it's there. Everything he's said to me, everything about his other Slayers, their desire for what he could offer them, rings in my ears as I look at him.

And he's thinking the same thing. I can see it all over his face. The blood lust is there, just as strong as the other. The sexual undertone to the question, no matter which meaning he'd intended.

I remember dimly what I thought about earlier. The two being intertwined for him, inseparable.

"No," I say quietly, never looking away from his eyes.

It's the truth.

I think he already knew it.

As soon as the word leaves my lips, Spike's hands drop from around my neck, move to my shoulders. He spins me around with lighting quick speed, pressing my front into the wall.

My hands fly out on instinct to catch my weight before my face can hit the brick, palms scraping along the wall on either side of me.

Spike pushes his body flat against mine, his front to my back, every inch of him now pressed intimately against me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, swallowing hard.

"So it's not death you're after," he murmurs huskily, giving the lobe of my ear a sharp, quick tug. "What then, Slayer?"

My head is spinning.

I don't make a move to answer him, so he presses on.

"This?" He asks breathlessly into my ear, rolling his hips forward meaningfully. I gasp at the feel of him, his arousal, pressing into me. My eyes fly open, pulse racing.

Spike slides his hands sinuously from my shoulders to my wrists, encircling them with his fingers. "Is this what you want?"

I have to ask myself the same question.

Is this it? Is this what I want?

I don't know. Or maybe I do, but I'm still not ready to admit it. Not out loud.

Not to him.

 _How did we get here?_ I think, trying desperately and failing to remember why we shouldn't be doing this. All the reasons I have to shove him away from me, to leave this place.

But I can't. I can't move.

"Tell me," he urges headily, tongue darting out to flick my ear. "Is this what you want?"

There's no mistaking what he's asking. There's no double meaning this time.

Just one, crystal clear meaning. And I'm stuck, torn, unable to move from the spot.

A Master Vampire behind me, pinning me against the wall, his lips inches from my neck and I can't move. I don't _want_ to.

I don't know what happens next. I don't know what happens if I say yes.

If I say no.

I'm still not even sure what the right answer is, what the truth is. My body is screaming one thing and my brain…well, my brain is sort of short circuiting, but I know its saying something to me, too.

But it's the Slayer in me. The darkness, the demon, whatever the hell it is that makes me what I am, that's the loudest.

The darkness in me that's drawn to what it sees, what it feels in Spike.

What it might have seen in Angel.

What it could never find in Riley, or Parker or Scott, or anyone else. Any man, any average Joe Normal.

It's match. It's equal.

And it's that part of me that finally makes the decision. Whether it's right or not, whether it's the truth or not.

When the word leaves my lips, it's barely more than a whisper.

"Yes."

The vampire freezes behind me, hands still locked around my wrists.

Whatever he'd been expecting to hear, I don't think that was it. It's quiet in the alley, nearly silent except for the thrumming beat of the music filtering out to us through the wall.

I'm beginning to think that maybe Spike hasn't heard me when he suddenly whirls me around again so that I'm facing him head on.

He stares at me, brow furrowed, looking like he's trying to work through something in his head. Some puzzle, some big decision that has to be made.

I wonder if it's the same one I had to make.

The silence stretches on between us. Neither of us moves for a long, breathless moment.

And then he lunges for me, putting his hands on the wall on either side of my head and capturing my mouth with his.

It's searing, this kiss. Wild and deep and open mouthed and my legs are starting to shake from the force of it, from the sin it's promising.

I grip the leather of his duster's lapels when I finally feel my legs start to give out, sagging into him. Spike responds quickly, hands coming to roughly grip the backs of my thighs, yanking me up off the ground in one fluid movement. My legs wrap around him instinctively, hooking my ankles at the small of his back as he pushes my back more firmly against the brick wall.

The friction he's creating between our bodies is dizzying, driving me insane, blinding me to anything and everything else around us.

I forget that we're outside The Bronze.

I forget that anyone might see us.

I forget about the wound in my side.

I forget who I am

None of it matters.

Spike nips at my bottom lip, sucks it into his mouth and rolls his hips up, rubbing his denim-clad arousal hard against my center.

I shudder in his arms.

" _Oh_ ," I breathe, breaking the kiss and pulling back just enough so I can see his eyes.

They're glazed, black and unfocused. Riveted on mine.

We watch each other for a moment, both of us breathing raggedly, before his hands slide around to grip my hips and he begins moving my body in time with his. Manipulating my movements, undulating my pelvis into his in slow, rhythmic circles.

"O-oh," I whimper again.

It's the only thing I can say. The only sound I can make are these breathless, heady mewls.

My brain is completely shut off.

"That's it," Spike murmurs, breath fanning across my lips, "tell me how good it feels."

But I can't tell him anything. I can't speak.

So I moan instead, wrapping my arms around his neck, sliding one hand into the platinum curls at his nape. Our mouths are so close, almost touching but not quite. Our lips barely graze each other's with every pulsing, upward movement of my hips.

I'm dizzy. Delirious with his nearness, the scent of leather, the astringent flavor of alcohol still burning on my tongue. There's this little fire he's stoking inside me, growing hotter by the second, higher and higher every time he rubs against me in just that way.

I twist my fingers hard in his hair, pull his head back, closing my eyes as I fight for more contact, more friction, just _more_. More of everything.

More of him.

Spike growls, and my eyes pop back open in time to see his, still dark, still dazed, flashing at me hungrily.

"Slayer," he murmurs huskily against my lips. It's almost a warning, but I don't know what for.

The rumbling vibration sends a shockwave from the back of my neck straight down to my core.

I jerk forward and smash my lips into his again, my free hand flying to the waistband of his jeans, to his belt buckle. I pull at it, blindly, unthinkingly, but can't get it with just my one hand.

Spike chuckles against my mouth, flicking his tongue out to run along the curve of my top lip. I whimper in frustration, tugging hard on the buckle.

For a moment I think he isn't going to help me, but then I feel him shifting beneath me. He brings one arm around, hooking it beneath my butt so he's supporting my weight with it, freeing his other hand to join mine.

Together, we get the belt buckle undone, and I pull my hand away from him so he can lower the zipper.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he reaches his free hand in between our bodies, right where our pelvises are crushed together, and pops the button on my pants. Drags the zipper down slowly.

I gasp loudly, dragging my lips away from his and staring into his face with wide, glazed eyes as I feel two cool, long fingers hooking beneath the elastic of my underwear.

I blink at him and he just smirks, gliding his fingers smoothly, easily through the wetness between my legs.

"So hot," he whispers, curling his tongue up as he twirls the tips of his fingers in a slow circle, barely touching the sensitive flesh. "So wet for me."

My body is on fire, aching for him, for more of him. For everything he can give to me, the truth behind all the years of innuendo and all the whispered seductions.

I wait for him to press forward, to push his fingers inside. My whole body, every muscle, every nerve is tense for it. Ready. Wanting.

Desperate.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he pulls his hand out of my pants and lets go of me, dropping me roughly down to my feet.

I'm stunned.

I glare at him, my cheeks going red with embarrassment. "What are-?"

Before I can finish, before I can even form the question, Spike's gripping the waistband of my pants and yanking them down over my hips.

 _Oh._

I help him get them down to my ankles and step out of them quickly, shakily, not even remembering to be upset that they're probably ruined because Spike's already lifting me up again, wrapping my legs back around him and pulling his own zipper down.

And one minute I'm pressed against him, the soaked cotton of my underwear the only barrier between him and I, and the next the barrier's gone. Ripped, shoved aside by his strong hand as he finds my opening and thrusts inside of me.

And it's so good. _Oh, God,_ it's so good. He fills me up, stretches me, brings me to a delicious point I've never felt before. Hard and velvet soft, cooling the fire inside me and raging it higher all at once.

I cry out, voice suddenly hoarse, letting my head fly back and smack into the wall.

"Bloody _fuck_ ," He groans, nails biting into the bare skin at the swell of my back. I watch his jaw clench with the effort of holding still. He drags hazy eyes up to mine, and time stands still for a long moment.

I'm the first one to move.

Putting my hands on his shoulders for leverage, I shift back, lifting my hips up, pulling myself off of him and dropping slowly back down.

Spike gasps, his hands gripping me harder.

The feel of him inside me, slipping away from me, recapturing him in my heat...it's not like anything I've ever felt before.

But it's not enough.

He's not moving. Not matching his body to mine, and there's not enough leverage, enough friction.

"Move," I tell him, voice breathless. I dig my nails into the tender skin at the back of his neck. "Move with me."

They must be the magic words, because a second later Spike growls and braces one hand against the wall beside me, begins moving his hips. Slow at first, excruciatingly so, sliding himself sensuously out of me, thrusting hard back in.

But it doesn't take long before our pace quickens, the pounding rhythm becoming erratic.

It's too much.

The sensation of him inside me, beneath me. The flavor of him, his tongue as he captures my mouth again and again, nipping and tugging at my swollen lips. The sounds we're making. The words he's saying.

It's too much, and still not enough.

Too much, not enough, and everything in between.

"Is this it?" he asks me, voice strained as he slams into me, knocking me back hard into the brick with each thrust. "Is this what you wanted?"

I don't have an answer.

I can't think, can't form a coherent thought other than _yes_.

 _Yes, yes, yes._ Repeated over and over again in my mind, growing more manic by the second.

Spike keeps his eyes locked on mine, our lips almost touching as he continues to drive his hips into me with wild, bruising force.

It's verging on painful, but it's good. So good.

And it should be. Painful. There's no room for tenderness. It isn't what I'd wanted.

This, right here, what's passing between us. This is what that feeling is, the one I felt when I'd first kissed him. The one he'd described tonight, how he'd felt after killing that Slayer.

This is what it means. How it manifests itself. Blood and violence and sex, all connected.

Dangerous. _This is so dangerous._

And I'm so close.

So close, I can feel my inner muscles beginning to clench and spasm around him. Spike can feel it, too. I can tell by the way his pace quickens, the way he's gripping me tighter and tighter, pushing me harder with each thrust.

"That's right," he whispers hotly, his words coming out in time with his thrusts, "Come for me, Slayer."

And I do, a moment later. Directly on the heels of his whispered command. My eyes flutter closed and I throw my head back into the brick, convulsing in his arms. His name the only coherent word in the keening wail that tumbles passed my lips.

Spike follows me over a second later with a roar, leaning forward and burying blunt, human teeth in the tender skin at the base of my throat.

My eyes snap open, sudden, wild fear gripping my chest. The haze vanishes.

I put both my hands in his hair, now mussed and completely free of the gel, and yank his head back from my neck with as much strength as I can muster.

Spike lets go of me immediately, dropping me to the ground at the same instant I put one hand on his chest to shove him roughly away.

He stumbles back, separating himself from me, watching me with confused eyes. Suddenly hyper aware of my near nakedness, I turn from him, lean over and snatch my coat off the ground, scrambling frantically, using it to cover my bare legs.

When I chance a look back to him, he's glaring at me, looking angrier by the second, wiping a small drop of blood from the corner of his lip.

My eyes widen. Is it his or mine?

 _My neck._

Oh, _God_ , did I actually let him bite my neck?

My hand flies up to the spot his teeth had just been, the skin still throbbing painfully. I check for puncture wounds and don't feel any.

But when I pull my hand away, there's the tiniest crimson stain on my fingertips.

I turn my wide eyes back to him, see him buckling his belt with a harsh flourish as he whips his gaze up to mine. His chest is heaving, still glaring at me with a deadly expression.

"You mind tellin' me what the _hell_ is goin' on?"

I blink at him, stunned, and everything…everything hits me all at once. With all the subtlety and force of a Mack Truck.

I suck in a deep breath, feeling light headed.

 _What have I done?_

"Well?" he growls, jaw ticking, eyeing me with thinly veiled rage.

 _I have to go._

I reach down and grab my pants, stepping into them as fast as I can on shaking, unsteady legs. When I go to fasten them again I realize the button is gone, the waist band torn. Now that the lusty haze is starting to fade, I remember to be upset that they're ruined.

And then I remember the reason they're ruined. That I'm standing out behind The Bronze, staring breathlessly at the very soulless, very evil reason they're ruined.

My stomach twists.

"I-I have to go," I say, out loud this time.

Now. Right now.

I start to move, take a couple steps forward toward the alley's exit, but Spike isn't having it. He steps in front of me, blocking me in, staring down at me with a look that I can't read.

There's anger, yeah, but there's confusion, too.

And the lust is still there, just below the surface. Barely disguised behind the rest.

I look up at him, steeling my gaze.

"Get out of my way," I say, sounding more pleading than the demanding I'd been going for.

He narrows his eyes, squares his shoulders. "Or what?

Nothing. Or nothing.

"Spike-" I start to say, as threatening as I can manage, but he cuts me off.

"So you can run off, spend the next week avoidin' me like the bloody plague and come crawlin' back to me when you need to get your rocks off?" He scoffs, a low, mocking laugh. "What? Captain Cardboard not gettin' the job done?"

I wince, sucking in a deep breath.

It's no worse an insult than normal. Nothing I shouldn't be used to hearing from him. It's not even directed at me. It feels different, though, in the wake of everything that's just happened. The fact that Riley isn't around anymore doesn't matter. It's the venom in Spike's tone that bothers me. There's the usual bitterness, the mockery, but there's an edge of something else, too, that makes me feel very small.

I glare at him, directing all my misplaced anger and all my embarrassment into the words, "You're disgusting."

Spike sneers at me.

"You just let me shag you up against a back alley wall," he says, lips curling into a cruel smirk. "Don't think you're in any position to be throwin' stones, pet."

There's that word again. _Let_. Allowed.

I let that vampire get close enough to stake me.

I let Spike…

But I didn't. I didn't _let_ him do anything. He hasn't seduced me, hasn't manipulated me into this. I'd wanted it. I'd told him I wanted it. I'd been an active participant.

 _Very active._

My stomach twists again, and I shake my head, coming back to myself.

Determined to get out of here, to put as much distance between the bleached vampire and myself as I can, I put my hand on his chest and push, shoving him back so I can step around him.

But he's faster than me right now, and he's gripping my wrist in a vice-like grip and spinning me back around to face him before I can even get two feet away.

My cheeks heat again, looking up at him.

"Let me _go_ ," I hiss, gritting my teeth.

Spike's eyes narrow and he twists my arm around, pinning it against my back. He hauls me forward and presses me against him, dark eyes burning into mine.

"Don't think so, Goldilocks," he murmurs, "not until you tell me what's goin' on here."

I could break his grip easily if I wanted to. _If_ I wanted to.

But I don't, I realize. Standing here, our chests pressed together, looking up into his face. Into his dark, flashing eyes and the furrowed brow and the impossible cheekbones.

I don't want to break his hold on me.

At least, there's a part of me that doesn't. The part that wants him to push me, keep pushing me, until I tell him what he wants to know. Everything he wants to know.

Why I kissed him. Why I came to him tonight. Why what _happened_ tonight...

I squeeze my eyes shut against the temptation to tell him, to explain everything. To get all of this off my chest, out of my mind, lay the burden at someone else's feet so I can think straight again. _Breathe_ again.

Focus on the things that matter.

I open my eyes to find Spike leaning away from me, his dark brows drawn together. The grip on my wrist loosens a little, just enough for me to wrench free of him and spin out of his hold, staggering out of his reach.

"I have to go," I tell him again, turning on my heel to run from him, to flee without giving him a chance to get the last word in. The same way I have every other time since the dreams first started.

But he grabs for me again. "Hold on a bloody-"

I whirl around, bringing a curled fist up and smashing it, hard, into the side of his face.

Not hard enough to send him flying, to cause any real damage. But hard enough that he stumbles back, his hand coming up to press reflexively against the skin that's already starting to swell.

My stomach drops, but I refuse to let myself think about why.

" _Don't_ ask me again," I say, my voice a tense whisper. My fists are still curled, shaking at my sides.

I don't know what he sees now, looking at me. It must be something different, something other than the loathing and disgust I'm trying so hard to convey, because Spike opens his mouth like he's about to say something, pauses for a long second, and then snaps it shut again.

He doesn't even _try_ to get in the last word.

He doesn't have to. Doesn't need to say what he's thinking. I can see it, plain as day.

I've never met anyone, any _thing_ , with a more expressive face than Spike.

The look on his features is dark now. Expression cloudy. Eyes raging. And it's there, the unspoken promise. The same thing he'd said that first night, under my window.

 _This isn't over._

I turn and walk away from him, desperately hoping that he's wrong.


	11. Chapter 11

I make it home somehow. I don't remember passing any of the normal streets, seeing any of the familiar houses. It feels like one minute I'm sprinting out of the alleyway and the next I'm standing on my front porch. Just like that.

Like someone snapped their fingers.

I'm shivering even though I'm not cold, both my hands and legs still shaking.

I can't stand out here on the porch all night, I know. I have to go inside. Need to change out of these clothes.

Maybe burn them.

I wonder briefly what time it is. If Mom and Dawn will be awake still. From where I'm standing, I don't see any lights on but I know that doesn't mean anything. But I don't want to see them, either of them. I feel like it's written all over my face. _I had dirty, lusty wrong, ridiculously incredible back alley sex with Spike_.

If the phrase were a facial expression, it would be mine now.

I look down at myself, checking my appearance one more time, then back up into the house. The thought briefly passes my mind that maybe I should just stay somewhere else for tonight.

Eventually, the siren song of a long, hot shower becomes too much for me, and I push the door open and step inside, closing it as quietly as I can behind me. It's quiet inside, but not quiet enough to mean that people aren't still awake. I can hear the faint rustling upstairs, the little bumps and groans that come from having an older house.

I sigh, lean my head back against the door and shut my eyes.

I crossed a line tonight. A big one. One I sort of made the promise to myself I wouldn't cross again, not after everything that happened the first time with Angel.

 _Angelus_.

It's different this time, I know. All vampire's aren't created equal. Angel may have been a vampire when I'd slept with him, but at least he'd had a soul.

When we started.

Honestly, I don't know if it makes it better or worse. I guess the only saving grace here is that I know that can't have happened with Spike. It's not like sleeping with me could have made him any _more_ evil. At least I know he won't be going all William the Bloody and start terrorizing my friends.

Well, no more than usual, anyway.

I guess that's one check in the Pro column for having sex with a soulless demon.

Soulless. Means no soul to lose.

And the fact that this is even a thought I'm having is enough to make my stomach do all kinds of twisty things.

"Oh, God," I groan, bringing my hands up, scrubbing them over my face.

I don't know what I'd expected to happen. That I'd suddenly feel better now, after having just given in to whatever...freaky urges I've been having for the past month? That having sex with Spike would cure me of the lusty and oh so very wrong feelings for him? Except I don't think that's it. I wasn't thinking about getting rid of these feelings when he had me pinned up against the wall.

That was the _last_ thing I was thinking. I _wasn't_ thinking.

Even afterward, when my head had cleared enough for me to realize what I'd done. I wanted to get away from him, but not _because_ of him. And he...he'd been so angry. Angry that what happened between us had happened. Angry at me for "letting" it. Probably angry with me for having all the answers and not giving him any of them, too.

The real kicker? He _deserves_ to be angry.

And the cherry on top? I _know_ he does.

Which, let's face it, is weird enough. I've gotten pretty good at being denial girl, especially when it comes to things that go bump in the night. Demons and feelings—not so mixy. That's pretty much been my stance from the get go.

I bring my hands down away from my face and lean harder against the doorframe, staring blankly into one of the wooden slats near the bottom of the staircase.

Bizzarro world. That's where I'm living.

 _Population me._

"What's the matter with you?"

It takes me just a second longer than it should to realize that it isn't my internal monologue still running, but is actually Dawn.

I whip my eyes up to the top of the staircase. She's standing there glowering at me with all the power of her usual teenage angst. Which, quite frankly, is pretty terrifying as of late.

I push myself off the door and force myself to walk forward, trying my best to ignore the pleasant aching that's begun between my legs. Or the reason for it in the first place.

"Hello?" Dawn sing songs as I approach her, taking the stairs extra slowly. She waves her hand in front of my face. "Earth to Buffy?"

I sigh.

This could have all been avoided if I'd just slept outside on the porch.

"What is it, Dawn?" I ask, exasperated, not in the mood.

Dawn opens her mouth like she's going to say something as I walk by, then snaps her mouth shut quickly. She starts to cough, making a show of patting her chest and swiping her hand back and forth in front of her face.

I pause halfway to my room, turn to look at her.

"Ew," she coughs again, "have you been smoking?"

The vice-like grip that's been slowly unwinding in my chest tightens right back up again. Spike. His cigarettes. Oh, my God, I _smell_ like his cigarettes? I'd thought about it, once or twice, since arriving home. Thought maybe I could still smell him.

But I'd also kind of thought it was all in my head. Phantom smells, or something.

Maybe I just hoped it.

I stare at my sister, blinking rapidly, trying to think of something to say. Finally, I open my mouth and very squeaky sounding "What?" comes out.

 _Smooth._

Dawn eyes me, raising one eyebrow. She cocks her hip out the side and puts both hands on her waist. "You smell like someone's ashtray."

 _Fantastic._

It isn't just my imagination, then. His scent is all over me.

"I was...at The Bronze," I say, quickly unbuttoning my coat and throwing it over my shoulder. I don't know why I think removing it will help, but it seems like the thing to do. "People were...smoking. A lot."

Dawn stares at me hard for a moment, and then she shrugs, turning away from me.

Relief floods my chest, my shoulder visibly sagging.

I don't know why I think Dawn of all people is someone who'll put two and two together. Why I think she'd automatically connect cigarette smoke with Spike, and then connect Spike with me, and then connect Spike and me with sex.

Probably because that seems to be the link my brain's been making lately.

"Whatever," she says, heading back down the hallway to her room. "Mom says she needs to talk to you."

The relief I'd just felt turns to ice in my veins. I lunge forward, stopping Dawn in her tracks.

"What about?" I ask, the words coming out in a hurried frenzy. "Is something the matter? What's wrong?"

Dawn's eyes have gone wide with my urgency. She shakes her head. "Don't look at me, I don't know. She just said she needed to talk to you."

I let go of Dawn's arm, pausing just long enough to toss my coat in through my open bedroom door and continue on down the hall, straight into Mom's room. I give a small courtesy tap at the frame before pushing the already ajar door open and stepping inside. Mom's there, idly milling around her room, picking up clothes here and there, folding them, laying them over the end of her bed.

She stops when she sees me.

"Oh, hi, sweetheart," she smiles at me, folding a pretty blue sweater over her arm and laying it down. "Where've you been?"

I look at her, eyes wide. I've never liked lying to my Mom. Try and avoid it when it's possible, which is way easier not that I don't have to hide all my Slayer stuff. Still, how can I explain where I was, why I was there, without letting her in on what happened last night?

And once I've explained where I was, why I was there, and who I was with…I don't know, it just seems like one of those slopes.

Of the slippery variety.

"Oh, just out." I say, trying for casual. Mom raises an eyebrow. "Uh, I had some research stuff to do. A-and training. With Giles. Research and training with Giles," I plaster on a wide, cheesy smile. Then, hurriedly, "I did that grocery list for you."

It isn't true. I haven't even had a chance to think about it today. But she'd asked me about it earlier, after I'd finished re-bandaging my wound, and it seems the safest topic of conversation for now.

"Oh, great," she says, smiling at me again. "Thanks hon."

I watch her for a moment, flitting absently between the clothes she's laid out on the bed and looking back and forth from one end of the room to the other. There's a bag on the bed. An open duffle bag that she's folding clothes in to that I hadn't noticed until just now.

Something feels off.

I frown.

"Are you okay?" I ask, coming further into the room and crossing my arms over my chest.

Mom pauses, mid flit, to look up at me.

"I'm fine." There's a pause. Then, "Have you seen my conditioner?"

I give her a questioning look.

"Did you look under the sink?" I ask.

Mom gives me a knowing look, her eyes going wide as she snaps her fingers and heads into the bathroom. I come further into the room, dropping down onto the far edge of the bed. She emerges a moment later, conditioner bottle in hand, and carries it over to the bag.

She's packing.

 _Something is definitely off._

My brow furrows and I move to sit on the edge of the far side of the bed, tucking my legs underneath me.

"Where are you going?"

"Oh," Mom stops moving, places the conditioner bottle on the bed beside her bag. "I was hoping to put this off but...you know that nothing I've been dealing with the last couple weeks?" She pauses, waiting for me to acknowledge that I know what she's talking about.

 _Of course I know._

I nod.

Mom looks at me, her eyes narrowing just a little. "Well, it might not be nothing."

It's weird, hearing her say that. For weeks, it's been Dawn and I that have been doing all the worrying. We've been the ones fussing over Mom, making sure she gets rest, trying to keep her from worrying. She's been the one saying that nothing's wrong. That she's fine.

That it's nothing.

 _"_ _It might not be nothing."_

Suddenly, I feel very small.

"What is it?" I ask, feeling all of ten years old again, sitting on the edge of my mom's bed, watching her pack for some glamorous overnight trip, maybe a weekend get away with my dad.

But this isn't that.

I watch Mom take a deep breath in, pausing, and my stomach twists.

It isn't the same feeling from earlier tonight, not the same twisting, guilty, verging on nauseas. This feels cold. Like for some reason, whatever it is she's going to tell me is going to change everything. And not in the normal, you're the Slayer; a new Big Bad is after you, save the world from insert-Apocalypse-here type of change everything. The kind that changes everything for maybe a few months at a time before things sort of go back to normal.

This is different.

"I'm staying overnight at the hospital for observation," she tells me, as casually as she can. It doesn't soften the blow of what she says next. "I'm getting a CAT scan."

I freeze, my breath getting stuck in my throat. And the cold is back; inching its way from my chest, out through my arms and down to the very tips of my toes.

I blink, staring at her. In an instant this thing, whatever it is, has gone from being nothing to needing a brain scan.

 _CAT scan._ I'm trying to think, rack my brain for any medical knowledge I may have stowed away from watching George Clooney on ER. CAT scan...is that the one where they look at your brain?

Or is that a PET scan?

Why are they all named after animals?

I feel hot, frustrated tears fill my eyes and Mom moves to sit on the bed across from me.

"It's only one night," she assures me, smiling. "A-and they say even if there _is_ something, it's still very early if they didn't see it before."

My head is swimming, the words sounding all jumbled in my ears as she says them.

 _It's still early._

Still early for what? The implication is that it's still early enough to catch it, to treat it. This something, the thing we've been wondering about for weeks now. The thing the doctors weren't sure was even there?

 _If they didn't see it before._

The words sound as hollow repeated in my head as they do the first time Mom says them. Isn't that it? It's still early. There's still time. What they tell you when they want you to think everything's fine.

Looking at Mom now, I can't tell if she believes what she's saying is true or not, or if she's just doing that thing. Saying what she thinks I need to hear. That thing that parents do, always trying to protect their kids no matter what little white lies they have to tell to do it.

Even when that kid is the Chosen One.

It's been a long time since I've thought of myself as someone who needs protecting.

"I'm going to be fine," Mom says, reaching out to me and covering my hand with hers.

I fight to keep my voice even, the unshed tears making it sound thick as I force a smile and say, "I know you will."

I wait until after mom leaves, until after I'm sure Dawn's gone to sleep, to slip outside again. I stop off in my room just long enough to pull out a sweater, forgoing the wool coat that's still tossed on the floor in the corner of my room.

I think briefly about changing the rest of my clothes, too, but decide against it. In the wake of everything Mom and I just talked about, smelling like cigarettes, like Spike, doesn't seem all that important.

I slip silently out onto the back porch and make my way down to the steps, wrapping the sweater tighter around me. It's quiet out here. And still. There isn't even a breeze.

I take a deep breath in and let it out slowly, through my nose, sinking down in time with my breath onto the porch steps. And then I run my fingers into my hair, gripping tightly at the roots and drop my head down. I squeeze my eyes shut and let myself cry, pressing my forehead down into my knees. It's more than just silent tears, too. These are sobs. They shake my shoulders, rack my frame and make it a little difficult to breathe. I don't know how long it's been since I've cried because I've been scared. It reminds me of when I was younger, waking up in tears out of nightmares that always had something to do with your parents dying.

I'm crying now because I'm scared. Scared for what the Doctor's might find. Scared for my Mom. Scared for Dawn, and for me.

And I'm scared because, if the Doctors do find something then I can't fight this. Not with Slayer strength, anyway.

I don't know how long I sit there. Fingers twisting in my hair, tears streaming down my cheeks, stomach heaving.

It hurts.

It's been at least a little while, ten minutes, maybe fifteen, before I feel the tingle shoot down my spine and know he's there. Standing there in front of me, watching me in the shadows.

I don't look up. Don't want him to see me like this, to know how weak and vulnerable I'm feeling.

This all feels so familiar. So similar to the night those weeks ago in the cemetery, the first night I'd seen him after the dreams started.

And yet it's so different.

Above me, Spike clears his throat. He isn't going to leave on his own. Not unless I ask him to.

 _Even then._

I sigh, dragging my head up, pulling my hands out of my hair. I stare up into Spike's darkened expression.

The same as it had been back in the alley, where I'd left him.

"What do you want now?" I ask, and if the tear tracks down my face hadn't given me away, the sound of my voice does.

I watch as the cloudiness fades from Spike's face, the dark in his eyes lightening. Even the hard set of his jaw, the rage I'd seen there just seconds ago seems to melt away.

He blinks at me, staring.

"What's wrong?" He asks finally, and as soon as the words leave his lips I see regret start to harden his previously softened features.

And I don't know what to say.

Because the lust is one thing. The way it echoes the drive for blood, how it manifests itself in violence. Lust, sex, darkness. That's something that...well, it doesn't make sense to me really, but I can _feel_ it. It's almost acceptable.

Easier to deal with.

Sex is one thing. One thing that's never going to happen again.

Sharing our feelings is a wiggins of a different color.

"I don't want to talk about it." I fold my arms tighter across my chest, turn my face away from him.

There's a long pause. I can't see Spike, am consciously looking in the opposite direction, but I can imagine the look on his face. The seething rage, the well deserved anger, maybe a little of the hatred I'm so used to seeing.

"'S the theme of the hour, innit."

I turn my eyes back to his, frowning. "What?"

"Slayer doesn't want to talk about it," he explains, shoving both hands in the leather pockets of his duster, smirking coldly at me. "What a surprise."

So it's this again. Here we are, hardly even an hour later, and we're already back to _this_. And I know Spike's soulless and everything, but he isn't completely inept. He can read context clues, right? Pick up on body language?

It should be plenty obvious that if I wasn't in the mood to talk about this earlier, I'm very much not in the mood to talk about it now.

Not _now_.

My thoughts drift back to Mom, and I squeeze my eyes shut against a fresh wave of tears.

"I _told_ you—"

"Not to ask you again," he says, mimicking my words from earlier. My eyes snap open. "Yeah, I heard you. You want me to let you bury your head in the sand, up your ass, the way you self-righteous lot tend to do." He snorts, tilting his head to the side, narrowing his eyes. "Didn't really think we were gonna do that, did you?"

Honestly? No. That wasn't what I'd thought at all. I wasn't thinking we'd be back to dealing with it so soon, though. Too much Spike for one night.

I get a sudden visual in my head, a memory from earlier. His tongue in my mouth, one cold hand gripping my hips as he slams up into me. Demanding a response from my body.

 _Way_ too much Spike.

I drop my eyes away from him again.

"Go away, Spike," I murmur, trying to sound as harsh as I can.

I can see out of the corner of my eyes that he isn't moving. Then, a second later, "This about earlier?"

My eyes shoot back to his, narrowing. "What?"

Spike looks at me, a slow, knowing smirk curving his lips.

"This the part where you wallow in shame?" He asks, taking a step closer to me, tilting his head back. He eyes me through his lashes. "Self-loathin' over the loss of your sodding holier than thou attitude?"

My mouth drops open and I gape at him. Him. He thinks all this is about _him_? I narrow my eyes further, wiping furiously at the tear tracks still falling down my cheeks.

There's so many thing I want to say, but the only thing that comes to my lips is the old standby.

"You're a pig, Spike."

He laughs.

"Ooo, harsh words," he coos mockingly, taking another step toward the porch. "Not terribly original, but—"

"Go _home_ ," I hiss, my fingernails digging into my skin through the fabric of my sweater as I grip my arms tighter.

Spike just smirks at me, raising both his eyebrows. "Don't get your knickers twisted just 'cause I know—"

And something inside me snaps a little.

"You don't _know_ anything!" I shout, leaping to my feet so quickly that I actually see Spike step back away from me.

He blinks his wide, azure eyes, the smug expression from a moment ago all but wiped clean. I see the question in them. Know what it is he's wanting to ask me.

And I don't know why, I may never know why, but I start to tell him.

"I-it's my mom," I mumble, wrapping my sweater more firmly around me and focusing my eyes down at my feet. I don't want to keep talking. Don't really want to tell _Spike_ , of all people, what's going on. But the words are out now, and once they're out, I can't stop. "She's been having these headaches. And the doctors weren't sure what was causing them. I think at one point they thought it was nothing, just, like...migraines or something." I drop back down onto the porch step slowly, rubbing my hands up and down my arms. "They said it was nothing, but now they...she's at the hospital now. Overnight, for a CAT scan."

I turn my wet eyes back up to the vampire in front of me and watch as his brow furrows. He looks confused, almost boyish as he searches my face.

"Your mum is sick?"

It's such a weird thing to say, and not just because it's Spike that's saying it.

Although that's wonky enough as it is.

My mom is sick.

Like she has a cold or something. The flu. Why isn't there a different word for this? Shouldn't there be a distinguishing word, something that doesn't sound like you're calling into work or staying home from school with a stomach bug.

It isn't something I want to agree with. Not a question I want to have to say yes to. I guess, technically, it isn't something I even can answer. Not for sure.

That's the reason for the CAT scan in the first place.

So I don't. I don't respond, don't nod my head. Just sit on the porch steps and stare out into the backyard, not really seeing anything.

I've been silent for a long time. Five, maybe ten minutes. And Spike's just been standing there in front of me, hands still in his pockets, watching me. When I finally drag my eyes back at him, his expression is pained. He looks still looks so confused, dark brows drawn, shadowing his eyes from me.

I sigh loudly, rubbing my hands beneath my eyes to wipe away the rest of the dried tears there.

"Why are you still here?" I ask him, but not harshly.

I just sound tired.

Something catches Spike off guard. Whether it's my question, or just the fact that I'm suddenly speaking again, I'm not sure. But his eyes widen, and he blinks at me. When he makes no move to respond, I raise my eyebrows, inclining my head forward.

"I was…" he stammers, trails off. "Well, I was..." he trails off again, pausing to roll his eyes up to the sky, the muscle in his jaw straining. He shakes his head. "Bloody hell, never mind."

Spike turns on his heel, his duster billowing out behind him. He gets about three feet away from me, down the little mulched path to the gate, hidden behind the bushes when he suddenly stops. I watch him, standing stone still. I can tell his chest is heaving from the motion of his shoulders. Having some sort of internal debate.

And then he whirls around again, storming back up to me. He comes to a halt directly in front of me, so close that I have to crane my neck back to look at him.

We stare at each other.

Whatever it is he's about to say, it's obvious it's taking a lot out of him to say it.

"Can I—" He cuts himself off, jaw ticking. I watch him, straining, struggling for the words. It looks like he knows what he wants to say. Just isn't sure exactly how to say it. If he even should. Then, finally, he groans and forces his eyes back to mine.

They're stormy, midnight blue in the shadowy moonlight.

"Is there something I can do?"

There's that thing in his eyes again. The thing I can't place, that I've seen just bare hints of the last couple times I've been around Spike. If it were anyone else...well, if it were anyone else I'm still not sure I'd know what it was.

But it's _something_.

And it makes my mouth run dry.

Even if I could answer him, I don't know what I'd say. Don't know how to respond to a question like that, coming from him. A couple things go through my mind immediately.

 _No._

 _Leave me alone._

 _Go away._

And the strangest one? The one that seems to be echoing more loudly than any of the others?

 _Stay._

It's there, in my mind, just as loud as any of other, more normal, more acceptable responses.

It isn't that Spike's presence is particularly comforting. It isn't. In fact, it's more unsettling than anything else, especially after...everything.

Maybe it's just that I don't want to be alone.

So whatever it is I'm thinking, I keep it to myself. Not that Spike's ever needed me to verbalize my thoughts for him to know them. After another, if not much shorter, internal struggle, Spike crosses to the porch, dropping down onto the step directly beside me. I almost jump when I feel his hand on my upper back, his palm tapping against my shoulder blade.

His hands had been all over me earlier. Digging roughly into my back, into my hips. Nails biting into my bare skin.

And it's the same hand that's touching me now. It's the same, but different. Because in spite of everything that's happened between us, all the physical lines we've crossed. I've crossed. This is almost tender. Almost sweet.

Almost _something_.

My eyes widen a little, and a fresh wave of tears fills them. I feel like they aren't just for Mom this time.

Spike pats my back, three, four times before he pulls his hand away. I see him out of the corner of my eye, leaning forward to rest his forearms onto his thighs.

He doesn't ask me any more questions. Doesn't even try to talk to me. We just sit in silence, side by side, facing forward and staring out into the dark, empty back yard.

Like a cease-fire.

So yeah, while I know somewhere buried in the back of my mind that what Spike's said is true, that what he'd proven to me again by showing up here at all…that this thing between us is far from over, I think we've called a truce.

Just for now. Just for tonight.

But it's enough.


	12. Chapter 12

"I should probably bugger off," Spike says from beside me.

His voice is quiet, softer than I think I've actually heard it before, but it jars me anyway.

It isn't that I've forgotten he was there. Kind of the opposite, really. I feel like I've been hyper aware this entire time, sitting so closely beside him, that he's here. Very much _here_.

It's just that he hasn't spoken at all, _at all_ , since sitting down. Neither have I.

And it feels like it's been hours. So any noise at this point, with how quiet and still it is out here, sounds booming.

I turn my face to him, blinking. "What?"

It's a stupid thing to say. I've heard him. He knows I've heard him.

He exhales, looking away from me. "The uh, the sun," he explains, a little haltingly. His hand comes up to cup the back of his neck. "It'll be up soon."

The sun.

My brow furrows, and I glance away from him, over toward the eastern horizon. Sure enough, the sky looks like it's starting to lighten, the darkest, middle-of-the-night blue fading a little around the edges to a lighter, more early morning hew.

Both of which, I realize, are colors that I've seen Spike's eyes take on.

 _The sun is coming up._

So it has been hours. A lot of hours.

I have to be at the hospital soon.

"Oh," I say, keeping my eyes focused out on the sky in front of me. Not very eloquent, but my brain is pretty much fried at this point.

And it seems appropriate.

Spike sighs, pushes himself up onto his feet and walks down the step, into the grass. He doesn't say anything to me as he moves toward the gate. I watch him go.

There's fresh dew on the blades grass, and they bead up onto the edges of his boots as he walks.

I'm entirely prepared to watch him walk away, so I'm a little surprised when he stops again, the same place he'd stopped before.

"You know," he says, turning to look over his shoulder at me. "It's okay to be worried. About your mum, I mean." He considers me for a moment, then turns his body more fully around to face me.

His brow is furrowed, set in a serious, thoughtful expression.

"It doesn't make you…less."

He frowns, like maybe it wasn't exactly what he'd meant to say. Or maybe like he's thinking he shouldn't have said it.

Then, quickly, like an after thought, "Or…whatever."

I stare back at him, blinking. Earlier tonight, a few hours ago, this sentiment...coming from Spike. It might have been enough to shock me. Stun me speechless.

Right now, in this moment, it isn't.

"Um, yeah," I murmur, but it comes out scratchy. I clear my throat and try again. "Okay."

I keep my eyes on his even though what I see there, the complete and total sincerity I think I see there, makes me want to look away.

Really, really badly.

Because that can't be right. A trick of the moonlight, maybe. And I don't know why I say it. What makes me say it? But the words are out of my lips before my jumbled, fried egg brain can catch up.

"Thank you."

Now I think I'm probably making the same face he had a moment ago.

I don't know what I'm thanking him for. Honestly, it could be a bunch of different things. I can tell by the look on his face that he doesn't know, either.

But it makes him feel as uncomfortable as it makes me.

"I should, uh..." He trails off, pointing with his thumb back over his shoulder. Then he nods at me, turns around and starts back down the little path.

I watch him go again, for the third time tonight, prepared for the second time for him to leave. A thought occurs to me before he can disappear behind the bushes.

"Spike."

He turns around again at the sound of his name, both eyebrows slightly raised. I push myself to my feet, re-folding my arms over my chest. I look down.

"Can we not…tell anyone about this?"

I don't know who I think he'll tell, exactly. Spike isn't overly high on the friend meter, and it isn't like I picture him hitting up The Bronze, shooting a casual game of pool with Xander or anything.

But I'm not ready for people to know about Mom yet. Not until we know what's happening, get whatever results we're going to get tomorrow. I don't want anyone to worry until there's a _reason_ to be worried.

Myself not included.

But that's kind of the point. There's no use in everyone feeling as freaked out and miserable as I am.

And Dawn. _God_ , if Dawn found out before Mom was ready to tell her…

"Wouldn't dream of it."

It's the tone of his voice that brings my eyes back up. Hard and cold as stone, callous. Different, even from the way he'd spoken to me outside The Bronze.

When I look at his face, I see it. The anger is back.

His eyes flash, and any trace of whatever it was I thought I'd seen there before vanishes. I watch as the muscle in his jaw clenches, and he purses his lips.

I frown, not understanding the sudden change. Just a moment ago things had been…well, not nice exactly, but almost. Close. The only thing I'd done was ask if he'd—

 _Oh._

Oh, he thinks…

I mean, not that I'm advertising it. Not that I want people to know _that_ happened. With me, and Spike, and the verging on uncontrollable lustiness.

Because hey, majorly don't want anyone to know about _that_ , either.

But that hadn't been what I'd meant when I'd asked.

So I tell him that. Or I start to.

"I didn't mean—"

"I know what you bloody well meant, _Slayer_ ," he snaps at me, cutting me off. He narrows his eyes, flicking his head to the side. "Dirty little secret's safe with me."

I open my mouth to protest again, just to set the record straight, but he isn't having it.

"Look, I let it go tonight out of respect for Joyce, cause she's a nice lady. But let's get one thing straight, yeah?" Spike jabs a finger in my direction, his voice low, menacing. "I'm gonna get what's mine, pet. Always do."

I just stand there, a little stunned. I'm still not 100% clear on what's just happened, but I don't get a chance to ask because a second later Spike spins on his heel, whirling away from me. A swirl of black leather and white blonde hair.

I hear him yell it as he rounds the corner, storming through the gate and disappearing into the shadows.

"Don't you forget that."

It sends a shiver down my spine.

I blame it on the chill in the air that doesn't exist, turn and hurry back inside.

A shadow.

My mom has a shadow.

I test the phrase out over and over again in my head, running a hand distractedly through Dawn's hair. She's sleeping, has been sleeping, since I came back out from the exam room.

I'd been grateful at first. That she hadn't been awake to ask me what was going on with Mom. I hadn't known what to tell her.

Not that that's changed. I still don't know what to tell her.

I can't tell her that the doctors found something, because we don't know what they found. Won't know until after the surgery. I can't tell her Mom has a shadow.

I don't even know what it _means_.

But even though I don't know what to say, don't have anything _to_ say, I find myself sort of wishing Dawn would wake up. Even if I don't have anything good to tell her. Even if she's her usual (as of late) less than charming self.

Because it's incredibly lonely here, sitting in the hospital waiting room. It's something I've thought about a lot over the past couple hours. I don't think I've ever really thought about why they call it that, the waiting room. I guess it seemed pretty self-explanatory.

Waiting Room: A room where you wait.

I just never thought about how literal the name is.

Because that's all these people are doing, I realize, casting a slow glance around the room. Everyone's eyes are down.

There are TV's in here. Stacks of old magazines, _People_ and _Vogue_ and some raggedy looking health journals from about ten years ago. There are even some little puzzle books for kids. But no one, not a single person, is looking at any of them.

They're all just sitting, staring around the room. Waiting. Just like I am. Waiting for what I'm sure most of them think will be bad news, but hoping for good.

And I know that's true.

Your brain never goes to the best-case scenario. It always goes to the worst.

I lean my head back against the stucco wall behind me, let my eyes flutter closed. I'm so tired, but I can't sleep.

Well, can't, or won't. I'm not sure I can tell the difference right now. I haven't slept at all, not since I woke up yesterday morning after passing out from the blood loss. It feels like a million years ago.

 _A shadow._

It's what I'd asked for, isn't it? In my head last night, after Spike had asked me. A different word for what my Mom is. Something distinguishing, something other than just _sick._ I'd thought it might make it better.

I don't know why.

 _My mom is sick._ _My mom has a shadow._

Neither of them sounds of the good.

And now my thoughts having drifted back to Spike is giving me a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's kind of a welcome change from the anxious knot that's been making its presence majorly known all day.

Ever since he'd left.

When I'd gone back inside this morning, I'd toyed with the idea of going upstairs and getting some sleep.

I'd also considered calling Giles. Not even to tell him what was going on with Mom, but just to check in. See how patrol had gone. Ask him if he'd had any problems.

Just to talk about something else, I think. Occupy my mind with something else. Feel like the Slayer again.

I'd picked up the phone to dial, seen the glowing green clock on top of the microwave and hung up. 5:30. Even that would've been a little on the early side for Giles.

In the end, I'd settled on a shower and a scary big pot of coffee, letting Dawn sleep for a couple more hours before waking her up to head for the hospital.

Then, right before we'd left, I _had_ decided to call Giles.

I hadn't told him much. Just that I wouldn't be in for training today. That the doctors wanted to run some tests to see if they could determine what's been causing Mom's headaches, and that Dawn and I were both going into the hospital to wait.

He'd offered to come with us. I'd told him not to.

So when I open my eyes to see him entering the waiting room now, my first instinct is to be confused. Then frustrated.

There's a reason I'd asked him not to come.

I push myself to my feet, being careful not to disturb Dawn beside me, and start marching toward him.

I don't get very far before someone calls my name.

I stop mid-stomp, turning around and looking down the long hallway leading back toward the other end of the hospital. It's Mom's doctor, Dr. Isaacs, who's called after me.

He doesn't look happy.

My stomach drops, the knot there tightening, extending all the way up into my chest. My feet immediately carry me forward, meeting him halfway.

"Everything went fine," he assures me quickly, seeing the panic on my face. "They're moving her into recovery now."

I let the air out of my lungs.

 _One fear down, 5,456 more to go._

On to the next.

"Do we have the results yet?" I ask.

He pauses for just a second, then steps up beside me, gesturing toward a row of chairs a little ways away from where I'd been sitting a moment ago.

"Let's, um, sit down over here for a minute."

My heart skips a beat. No _good_ news has ever needed to be delivered sitting down. Ever.

 _No._

"No!" I shout, much too loudly.

The entire room seems to stop around me. I can feel the stares on me even if I can't see them.

I clear my throat awkwardly.

"Excuse me, no, I…" I glance over at Giles, who's taken my seat next to Dawn, watching me warily. She's thankfully still asleep.

I turn back Dr. Isaacs. "I don't mean to be rude, I just…I've been sitting for hours." _Sitting for hours, worrying for hours,_ waiting _for hours._ "I don't wanna sit. I just…" I trail off, searching his face, trying desperately to read it. "Tell me. Please."

Dr. Isaacs considers me for a moment, casts a sideways glance over to where Dawn and Giles are sitting. Then he looks back at me. He sighs.

"Your mother has…the term is low-grade glioma." He takes a deep breath, still focusing intently on me. "It's a brain tumor."

I swear the planet stops turning.

"The clinical name is oligodendroglioma. It's in the left hemisphere of the cerebrum…"

He's still talking. I know he is, I can hear his voice droning on, filling up my head with words that don't make sense. Packing in, crowding whatever space I'd had left there to fill. Like cotton, making everything around me seem fuzzy.

He's talking, but I'm not listening. I stopped listening at "brain tumor".

My mom has a shadow. _My mom has a brain tumor._

No.

This isn't happening. I think back to Xander, what he'd said about Riley and I. It had seemed so silly at the time, but I find my hazy mind coming back to it now. _I refuse to believe this is happening._ This isn't…it's the kind of thing that happens to other people. The kind of thing you never think will happen to you.

 _Until it does._

"…unfortunately," Dr. Isaacs is saying now, "things may progress very quickly."

I shake my head, coming back to myself. I turn glassy eyes back to the doctor's.

"Things?" I ask in a voice that doesn't sound like mine. "What things?"

"Symptoms," he says simply, like it's nothing. Like he does this all the time.

Which, I guess, he does.

"There's a fair variety that might present. Loss of vision or appetite, lack of muscle control, mood swings…"

"But what can we do?" I ask in a rush, cutting him off.

What can we do? It's the question I ask, but it isn't what I mean.

I look back over across the room at Giles, then to Dawn.

 _What are we_ going _to do?_

"Well, not much," he says, drawing my attention back to him, stepping around me to lead me to a bank of chairs on the opposite end of the room. "Until we determine if the tumor's operable. Which we're working on."

I nod absently, trying to let everything he's saying sink in without feeling like the weight of it will crush me. I sink down into a chair.

"Is there something I…" _can do?_

I trail off, not finishing the thought. Don't say it out loud as my chest tightens; hazy thoughts drifting again back to the bleached vampire.

I close my eyes for a minute, then open them again as I rephrase. "I mean…can I help?"

Dr. Isaacs offers me an understanding smile, but he shakes his head no.

"You can start by not worrying. Your mother's prognosis is a lot better today than it would have been even a year ago," he explains, using what I'm sure he thinks is a soothing voice. "Even if the tumor's not operable, she has a real chance."

The words have my stomach doing that twisty thing again.

 _A real chance._ Like that's supposed to mean anything to me?

"What's a real chance?" I ask him hesitantly, half afraid to hear the answer.

He smiles reassuringly. "Nearly one in three patients with this condition does just fine. Now…"

And he's talking again. Asking me something about insurance, my mom's insurance. It's a question I don't know the answer to.

"I'm not sure," I answer the question he's asked numbly.

Mom knows. Mom knows everything, all of this.

I've never needed to know before.

I'm still stuck five steps behind, focused solely on the number he's rattled off. One in three. What is that…a 25% survival rate?

He asks me something else. Something about a cell phone, our home environment. Does Mom use a cell phone?

"Uh, I think so."

I can't remember for sure if I've ever seen her use one.

At the gallery, maybe?

 _Oh, yeah. She_ "Um, sh-she has one of those ear things."

Another question. Do we live next to any power lines?

"Uh…I-I don't know."

Do we live near a chemical plant?

 _Are there even any chemical plants in Sunnydale?_

"Maybe."

He asks me something else, one more thing, but I don't hear it. I'm somewhere else. I'm already standing all the way down at the worst-case scenario, losing my mother to this thing in her head, looking back at myself sitting in the waiting room chair.

"I'm sorry," I murmur, staring straight ahead. I don't know if I'm apologizing for not having the answers he needs, or if I'm apologizing for not listening.

Dr. Isaacs says a few more things, more things I don't hear. Then he places his hand comfortingly on my shoulder, squeezes once and stands up to leave. I watch him go.

"Buffy."

I turn at the sound of my name, slowly coming back to myself. It's Giles. He's crossed the room, come to stand beside my chair, looking down at me with concerned eyes.

I forget to be upset that he's here.

"Giles," I say quietly, like if I say it any louder it makes it truer, "it's bad."

"I gathered," He says gravely, watching me carefully as I glance around the room again, put my hands on either side of the chair and push myself a little unsteadily to my feet.

He frowns. "Buffy, are you all right?"

Dr. Isaacs said there isn't anything I can do. Not until we know more, know if the tumor is operable or not. But I have to.

I have to do _something_.

I don't realize that I've spoken out loud until Giles furrows his brow, looking worriedly at me over the edge of his glasses.

"Do something?" He asks, reaching out and putting his hand on my elbow. "Buffy, what did the doctor say?"

I focus on him.

"You didn't have to come," I say, still speaking quietly. Distracted.

Giles gently releases my arm, raising his chin. "I know."

I nod, looking once again over to Dawn, then back to Giles. Truthfully, I'm glad he's here. Thankful he arrived when he did. I feel a little guilty, though. If he's here, it means he's either had to close the magic shop for the day, or put Anya in charge…

My eyes go wide as it hits me. I can't believe I haven't thought of it before.

Magic.

There might not be a spell on Mom, nothing of the mystic variety that's been making her sick, given her the tumor. But that doesn't mean we can try something wiccy to fix the problem, right? Some sort of healing spell. Maybe a spell to make an inoperable tumor operable…

That's a thing, right?

Willow. I need to talk to Willow.

"Can you drop Dawn off at school?" I ask Giles suddenly, stepping around him, reaching for my jacket. "O-or take her with you, back to the Magic Box?"

I start to put my jacket on, watching the obvious confusion play over his face. But I don't have time to explain. If there's something magical that can help my mom, I want to find it sooner rather than later.

Now.

"Tell her I'll meet her there later tonight, pick her up to come back here." I turn on my heel, heading toward the door. But then I stop, turning back around as I have the same thought I'd had sitting on my porch this morning.

"Giles?"

He looks at me, raising his eyebrows.

"Please, don't tell anyone else yet."

He nods, lips forming a line. "Of course, Buffy. Whatever you need from me."

My eyes start to burn a little as I look at him now, and I exhale a shaky, "Thank you."

I turn to leave again, but I'm stopped when he calls my name.

"What do you want me to tell Dawn?" He asks, casting an affectionate glance at my still-sleeping sister. His eyes meet mine again. "About your mother."

I follow the path his eyes have just taken, looking back at Dawn. She looks so tiny, so impossibly small, curled up in the stiff chair. So fragile without the mask of her attitude to hide behind.

I think about what's going to happen when she wakes up. When Mom comes out from under the anesthesia. The world they're going to wake up in is going to be so different, so _changed_.

Which is saying a lot for two people who have lived with a vampire slayer for the last five years.

And my heart breaks a little. For her, and for Mom.

And for me.

But I can't fall apart. I can't be the one that needs comforting, or the one panicking.

I protect people, I've _always_ protected people. Granted, yes, usually from monsters, but I figure this is kind of the same thing. It's all part of the one thing that everyone, no matter who you are, is afraid of. The Unknown.

And besides that, it's my job.

It's my calling.

Setting my jaw, determined to find a way to fix this, I look back up at Giles.

"Tell her we don't know anything yet."

Willow says she's willing to try, that she'll do some research, but she can't make me any promises. But it's okay. Better.

I feel better when I leave her.

I've never been as interested in magic as I have been over the past few weeks. The spell to see spells, and now this. Normally, I'm not a fan. I don't trust it.

Funny how quickly that goes out the window in Buffy logic when someone I love needs help.

Then again, Buffy logic hasn't ever really faired well when the people I love need help.

I exhale a sigh, walking slowly down the dark street. It's quiet again tonight, practically no one in sight. I'm on my way to the magic shop to pick up Dawn so we can go back to the hospital, sit with Mom for a little while.

I hadn't meant to leave her there this long. I called Giles to let him know I was running late, and he said it was fine. Of course he did.

And I'd _needed_ to talk to Willow.

And then I'd needed to be alone.

I'd gone back to the house for a little while. Walked around in the kitchen, washed the dishes that had piled up in the sink. Traced my fingers through my mom's little date book beside the telephone. Read the notes she'd left from messages.

My mom's always had such pretty handwriting. I remember when I was little, always trying to copy it.

I never could.

I'd gone upstairs after that, just spent some time in her room. Checked to make sure she hadn't left anything she might need, might want, when she woke up in recovery. There hadn't been much. Not that I'd actually thought there would be.

Mom always takes care of everything. She's the best planner I know.

Even once I'd left the house, I'd decided to take the long way to the magic shop. Cutting through one of the smaller, more mundane cemeteries, sort of halfway patrolling. I don't think I'd actually expected to see any vamps, which is probably a good thing.

My side might be healing up fine, but my head — my cottony, fuzzy head — wouldn't have been in it.

So now it's almost 8:30 and I've managed to waste a record amount of time, pretty much doing nothing but worrying and more than likely looking for answers in all the wrong places.

 _And speaking of all the wrong…_

"What do you want, Spike?"

I don't know how long he's been trailing me exactly, but it's been long enough.

I don't turn my head to look at him when he emerges out of the shadows, but I can see him clearly out of the corner of my eye.

"Seems like a silly question," he says, falling into step beside me.

I chance a look at him, raising an eyebrow knowingly, and catch him just as he's stuffing something into the pocket of his duster. At first I think it's just his cigarettes, but it isn't.

It's a stake.

"Was actually just out for a walk," he says, pulling his hand back out of his pocket and shifting his eyes over to mine. He smirks. "Among other things."

Out for a walk, at night, by the Magic Box.

 _I don't have time for this._

I look away from him, shaking my head.

"You have a problem with the word no, don't you," I say, not buying it.

Spike scoffs, snorting a short puff of air out of his nose.

"Oh, don't act like you're surprised I'm here," he says, chuckling humorlessly. "Told you I was gonna get mine."

There it is again. That phrase. _Get mine._ God, I don't even know what it means.

Bottom line? He's looking for answers. Again. He's going to keep looking for answers until I either give them to him or he kills me.

I'll be the first Slayer a vampire's ever taken out by bugging her to death.

 _About the reason they had sex._

Now, there's one for the Watcher Diaries.

As if he's reading my mind, Spike swings around, cutting in front of my and blocking my path.

I come to an abrupt halt, narrowly keeping from smashing into his chest. I look up at him, frowning. Having an altercation with Spike is about priority zero on my very long list of things I need to be doing.

"I don't have anything that's _yours_ , Spike," I tell him, narrowing my eyes. I try and sidestep around him again but he's too quick, matching me, cutting me off.

When I look back into his face, all traces of the teasing that had been there a moment ago are gone.

"I think you owe me a bloody explanation," he says, voice impossibly low.

I don't have time for this. There's too much, too many other things on my mind. I've already wasted too much time, left Dawn alone at the magic shop for close to four hours.

We need to get back to Mom.

But Spike doesn't care about any of that. I can see it there, plain as day, set in every inch of the grim determination on his face. Maybe I've finally exhausted my grace periods on this.

I wonder if I should just do it. Tell him. Wonder for a second what would happen if I did. Would he back off, leave me alone?

Or would this stalkery business just get worse.

I'm honestly not sure, but I don't feel like now is the time to be finding that out.

I square my shoulders, cross my arms over my chest, exhaling. "For what?"

His eyes flash, narrowing.

"Oh," he purrs, tilting his head, "we're playin' it like that now, are we?"

I raise my eyebrows.

"Fine then. I'll spell it out for you." He ticks his list off on his fingers as he tells me, "First you act all twitchy, goin' out of your way to avoid me on patrols." My eyes go wide, and he snorts. "Don't think I didn't bloody notice, pet. Then you seek me out, ask me for help. Jump my bones." He pauses long enough to smirk, curling his tongue. " _Twice_."

I feel it, that look, all the way down in my toes.

And I can't deny it. Any of it. Because it was me, the one who started it. Both times. It doesn't matter all that much that he responded...even if it didn't exactly feel forced. Because that was all it was from him. A response, a reaction.

He'd reacted to _me_.

And him being here, following me, showing up at my house. That's him _still_ reacting to me.

My chest tightens and I have to look away from him.

Spike chuckles darkly, stepping a little closer to me.

"Ya know," he says slowly, "I wonder what good old what's-his-height would have to say about all this?"

My eyes shoot back up to his. They're dark, still narrowed, looking down at me. I can't tell exactly by the words, the way he's saying them, whether or not he intends it to be a threat. Not that it matters. It isn't like Riley's around anymore. Like he'd care what I've been doing.

Still. It pisses me off.

I open my mouth to say something, I'm not sure what, but he cuts me off too quickly.

"Come to think of it, I haven't seen your lover boy around recently." He steps closer still, eyes widening, falsely innocent. "What, you chase another one off?"

Whatever I'd been about to say dies on my lips. I unfold my arms, letting them fall to my sides and my hands curl into fists instinctively. For what purpose, I have no idea. He's pushing my buttons on principle. Goading me. Trying to make a point.

And in spite of how frustrated I am, how frustrated he's _making_ me, I still don't feel like hitting him.

I tell myself it's because I don't have time.

So I put my hand on his chest and shove him away instead, marching past him as I say, "Shut up, Spike."

But the vampire still isn't having it. This time, though, instead of stepping in front of me he starts to walk beside me again.

Which is better, but still not great.

"Is that it then?" He asks mockingly, barking a short, cruel laugh. "You've been all twitchy and depressed over soldier boy packin' it in. Maybe a little lonely?" His voice drops low, honeyed, seductive. "Just lookin' to _feel_ somethin'."

The words are meant as an insult, but they don't hit me like one. Probably because they're so wrong. Things hadn't been right between Riley and I when I'd first come to him, when we'd kissed, no, but that hadn't been _why_. And after Riley had left, I hadn't been depressed. I'd been _relieved_.

So maybe it's just what Spike himself wants to think. That I'd come after him only then, use him like that. I guess I can see how that would be easier. It's the same type of thought I'd had last night, on the porch.

Attraction is one thing. Even the sex is one thing. Feelings are...another. Feelings don't belong here.

Not that I'm admitting to having feelings for Spike. Because, no.

Because that's impossible. Other than the usual face flaming irritation, and the now much too common gut wrenching lust.

But lust is a feeling, not an emotion. So maybe what I'm meaning is that emotions are another.

And that's completely different.

 _Right?_

"You don't know what you're talking about," I say, not looking at him. I don't stop walking.

I know what it sounds like. Like a brush off, or maybe a denial. I'm pretty good with denial. Kind of famous for it. So maybe that's partly it, too. But the real reason I say it is the simplest one.

Because he doesn't.

He doesn't know what he's talking about.

Spike, it seems, feels differently. He laughs, stepping out in front of me again, blocking my path one more time. I stop just short of running directly into him for the second time tonight.

My hands come up automatically, palms out, hovering over his chest like I'm about to shove him away.

But I don't. I can't make myself. It feels like there's a little electric charge pulsing into my fingers, radiating off him.

I realize this is the longest I've gone all day without being consumed by thoughts of Mom.

This whole thing is getting ridiculous.

I sigh, pulling my hands back to my sides and looking up into his face, clenching my jaw. He looks back down at me, a wicked smirk curving his lips.

I watch, frozen to the spot, as he leans in very close to my face and whispers, "Guess it takes even _less_ than I thought to pry open the Slayer's knees."

I slap him.

Not punch. I don't punch him, don't bring my fist up and pop him in the nose like I've done so many times before. _Slap_. Bring the palm of my right hand up and smack it across his left cheek. I hardly use any more strength or force than an average person, not even hard enough to make his head whip to the side.

It just happened, like in those old movies I used to watch with Mom. He said something cruel, and I slapped him.

Like I'm just a woman, and Spike's just a man.

His eyes are very wide now as they look back into mine, blinking rapidly. The smirk is gone. I don't think either of us really know what's just happened.

And more shocking than the slap itself? His words _hurt_. They hurt me. I might not be willing to admit how much, not to myself and not to him, never to him, but I can't deny the twisting in my stomach. Or the hot, stinging tears that have filled my eyes.

I blink, dropping my gaze down, away from him, before Spike has a chance to see.

But the long silence that suddenly stretches between us tells me I'm probably too late.

So I start talking before he can, not thinking about what I'm saying before I say it.

"Not that it's any of your business," I snap, infusing my voice with as much indignation as I can, trying to cover how thick it sounds. "But I ended things with Riley. Not the other way around."

I blink a few more times until I'm sure the tears won't fall, and look back up. His expression is completely different now. I force myself to keep my eyes on his, swallowing against the lump in my throat. Spike opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it again. He does this a couple more times, dark brows drawn, looking confused.

And something in me, a different something, snaps.

I sigh, shoulders sagging, and the rest of the words rush out in a whoosh. "You have questions for me? Fine. Maybe I do owe you a _tiny_ bit of an explanation."

I don't know if it's because I'm still a little rattled by what he's said, or by my very visceral reaction to it. Maybe I've just reached a breaking point. Too many other things going on in my head. Or maybe I'm just sick of being avoidy. It's taking too much energy, sucking up too much headspace when there just isn't enough room left.

Then, and I don't know _why_ I say it, "So you get one question. I'll answer one."

Spike's eyebrows shoot up, and he leans further away from me.

I would have expected his expression to be smug, maybe a little gloating. Cold. But that isn't what I see, looking at him now.

For all the pestering he's been doing, you'd think he wouldn't look so surprised.

"How terribly generous of you," he says, his voice only holding a tiny trace of the snark from before. He steps back further from me, putting his hands on his hips.

I just look at him, taking a deep breath and exhaling through my nose. "Ask it and leave."

Spike stares at me for a long time. Drumming his fingers against his hips, considering me through long, dark lashes. Lips pursed.

I think I'm expecting him to ask why I kissed him. Why I...why we...had sex. Maybe why I've been acting so strange around him for so long. Or maybe even why I don't seem to be able to hit him.

What I'm not expecting, maybe the one thing he could ask that I couldn't have seen coming, is what leaves his lips next.

"How's your mum?"

It's possibly the only thing that could have stunned me speechless.

Not really the fact that he's asked. He'd mentioned wanting to know earlier, when I'd first run into him on the street. And I'm not blind. I know he has a soft spot for Mom. It seemed to start a couple year's ago, when he'd first come back to Sunnydale looking for a way to get Drusilla back. The night I'd come home to find him drinking hot cocoa in my kitchen. Knowing Spike, it probably started before that. More than likely, when she first hit him over the head with that axe.

No, it isn't the question itself that's surprised me. It's the fact that he's asked it _now_.

Now, when I've fully given him an opening to get an answer, just one, for the reason things have been happening between us. Whatever that is.

And his voice is so _soft_ when he asks. Verging on gentle.

Gentle. Spike. Two words I don't think I ever, ever would have put together. Even if there is an "almost" prefix.

And it just doesn't make _sense_.

God, if things keep going like this I'm gonna end up a nut sack like Dru.

"Why do you do that?" I ask, getting my voice back, crossing my arms defensively over my chest.

It might not be the right question. Maybe _how_ do you do that would be better.

Spike frowns, shaking his head. "Do what?"

There's no easy way to explain what I'm asking. I don't have the energy, or the time.

"Never mind," I murmur, looking away from him.

"Well?" He asks, prompting me.

I'd almost forgotten he'd asked me a question.

It happens again. That thing where I start talking without thinking, without understanding why. Like my defenses have suddenly melted into a puddle of goo at my feet.

"It's a...brain tumor," I say quietly.

It's the first time I've said the words out loud.

I hadn't really explained anything to Giles at the hospital. Sure, he knew, could tell by the look on my face that it wasn't good news. But I hadn't said the words. Even with Willow, I'd asked her for a general healing spell. Told her just the basics, that there might be something in her head...but I hadn't said it. Tumor.

I step around Spike, start walking again. He lets me this time. But I don't continue talking until I feel him fall into step beside me.

"I mean, it's more complicated than _just_ that," I say, kicking at the ground as we walk. "The doctor…he told me all this stuff. Fancy medical terms for it. What it means, what we should do next." I shift my gaze up and over, see Spike watching me with shadowed eyes. "All I really came away with is 'there's something in your mom's head that shouldn't be there'."

He nods, looking away from me. "What are you gonna do?"

I uncross my arms, stuff my hands into the pockets of my jacket. "According to the doctor there's nothing I _can_ do."

Spike chuckles appreciatively, almost knowingly. "That must be a tickle."

We glance at each other again, and I nod.

"Yeah."

"Well, you've told the Watcher, right?" He asks, stuffing his own hands in his pockets beside me. "Your mates."

This brings another grimace to my face. Because I haven't told them, any of them. Not really. And because if I admit that I haven't to Spike, after _telling_ Spike…

What is all this saying about me? That I trust my mortal enemy more than I trust my friends? Or is it that I don't care if I worry him. If he'd even be worried at all. Maybe I just feel like I can tell him, talk to him about it, without feeling burdened by burdening him.

 _Maybe I should just stop trying to analyze all of this._

 _Before my head explodes._

"Sort of," I mutter, and chance another glance at him. He answers me with a raised eyebrow.

I look away again.

"I, uh…well, Giles came to the hospital," I explain lamely, clear my throat. "And I told Willow."

It's only a half lie.

Not that it matters, since I could care less about lying to Spike.

"And the rest of the Slayerettes?"

I inhale, nibbling down on my lower lip.

"Not yet," I say honestly, and then start to explain. "I mean, I'll tell them. Soon. But there's no point in worrying anyone yet. I don't want Dawn having to…"

I trail off as we come to stop, just a couple yards away from the Magic Box door. I hadn't realized we'd walked all the way here. Gotten this close.

It feels like it's come out of nowhere.

From where I'm standing, I can see through the window. Dawn is there, talking animatedly to Giles about something she's holding in her hand. He's shaking his head, yet another clipboard in hand, gesturing for her to put it back down.

I can see Anya behind them, stacking a shelf. Xander's there, too.

And standing on the outside, watching them, standing next to Spike…I kind of start to panic.

Any second, any of my friends could poke their heads out and see us…

I pause, mid-thought, frowning.

See us…what? Talking? Because that's what we've been doing. That's all we've been doing. Talking.

Having a conversation.

And why does that seem almost more damning than the physical stuff?

My eyes go wide as I realize why.

Because I've opened up to him. I've been telling him, Spike, things I haven't even told my best friends. The man I think of as my father. My own sister.

The thought floats back to me again, echoing in my head.

 _Sex is one thing. Feelings are another._

I've shared things with Spike tonight. Maybe not feelings, not exactly. But information. Personal information.

I'd crossed a line last night.

I've crossed another one now.

And I'm wondering if it wouldn't have been easier, better, just to tell him about the dreams.

"I should get Dawn," I say quickly, separating from him and inching closer to the door. "Get back to the hospital."

When I look back into his face, his eyes are dark. I can't read them.

"Right." He stuffs his hand into the pocket of his duster, fingering the stake I'd seen him put there earlier. "I was just headin' down to Willie's, anyway."

"Okay," I say.

"Okay," he says back.

And on this supremely awkward note, we turn away from each other. Me walking toward the front door of the Magic Box, Spike heading in the opposite direction. Supposedly toward Willie's. For a drink.

Wasn't that the same excuse he'd given me the night I'd run into him with the Dr. Seuss demons? The night of the trance. I'd felt like he was lying then, too.

This whole encounter with Spike has left my head spinning, worse than before.

 _Worse than ever before._

I don't know what to think about it. I don't think I want to think about it.

I shake my head, clearing it, and march purposefully for the door. My head feels heavy.

Spike. Being…nice? Maybe not nice, but…I don't know what. Interested? Sensitive?

Whatever it is, it's ooky.

 _And I thought things were weird after the sex._


	13. Chapter 13

My head is still dizzy, spun from my conversation with Spike when I push the Magic Box door open. The little bell chimes, and four pairs of eyes land on me.

"Hey, look who it is," Xander says, grinning. "Glad to see you up Buffering around. I was worried."

I look at him, blinking.

Did Giles tell them?

"Worried?" I ask, hesitating a couple steps into the shop. I glance between Xander and Anya, who's not paying attention to me.

"Yeah," Xander says, bringing my attention back to him. "Heard you had a run in with some nasty vamps the other night. You okay?"

 _Oh._

Oh. That.

My hand goes instinctively to my side, pressing lightly over the bandage that —yep— is still there. It seems like ages ago now, that it happened.

Another thing I haven't bothered to think too much about recently.

"Peachy, side of keen," I say lightly, forcing a bright smile. I turn my eyes to my sister. "Dawnie, are you ready to go?"

She glances at me and nods, but doesn't say anything. I frown, watching as she leaves her position by the window and heads down the steps, toward the research table.

I start to follow her, coming fully into the store when Giles suddenly steps in front of me.

I step back, caught off guard.

"Buffy," He says, searching my eyes for something. I don't know what. "May I have a word?"

I frown.

I've wasted so much time already, and my head just isn't in the right place for a lecture.

"Giles, we should really-"

"I'll be brief," he assures me, cutting off my protest and giving me another meaningful look. He casts his eyes over to Dawn, then back to me.

I sigh, turning to my sister.

"I'll be back out in two seconds, okay?"

She nods, murmurs an "Okay" and continues to put her books back into her backpack.

I gesture for Giles to lead the way and follow him through the store, back into the training room. He closes the door behind us.

"Thanks," I say automatically, trying to beat him to the punch. "For watching Dawn, and for ya know, not saying anything to anyone. I know-"

Giles comes to stand in front of me, removing his glasses and folding his arms over his chest.

"When was the last time you slept?" He asks me seriously, his voice verging on stern.

I exhale slowly through my nose, but don't answer the question.

"I'm fine, Giles," I say instead, going for reassuring. It comes out sounding more annoyed.

"I didn't say you weren't fine," he says simply, his eyes fixated on me, searching my face. "I just want to know if you've gotten any rest."

Something in his eyes, the way he's looking at me. I feel the spinning in my head start to slow down, and my shoulders sag.

I'm tired. I'm so tired, and so confused. And the way Giles is looking at me with that weird mix of Watcherly duty and fatherly concern has my defenses melting into goo.

"I…don't have time," I start to explain. Then, at the look on his face, "right now."

He opens his mouth to say something, but I keep going.

"It's just, everything with Mom…we just found out. And Dawn still doesn't…" I trail off, setting my jaw in a hard line. I shake my head. "They need me."

Giles nods, looking down at the ground.

"They do," he agrees softly, "Especially Dawn. Which means you can't neglect taking care of yourself."

Is it written somewhere in the Watcher's handbook, that they always have to do that? Tell you what you already know, but you don't want to deal with. I know he's right. If Mom and Dawn need me as much as I'm acting like they do, the last thing I need is to run myself ragged. Get to the point where I won't be able to take care of them.

But I feel better when I'm moving. I feel like I'm handling things when I'm moving, doing. Sleep is a lot of neither of those things.

"We need to get back to the hospital. Mom's probably awake by now, and she's by herself."

I step around him, making my way back to the door. I have my hand on the handle, about to push it open when he calls my name again.

I sigh, closing my eyes, slowly opening them again.

I turn back to face him.

"I'll sleep," I promise him, "Tonight. Okay?" I think about it for a minute, then, "Can you take patrol again?"

Giles just nods. I give him a small, grateful smile.

"Oh, and could you maybe give us a lift to the hospital?"

We could walk. It really isn't that far. Nothing in Sunnydale is very far from anything else. But it would take maybe thirty minutes, and I don't want to spend any more time getting there than we have to.

Dawn needs to see Mom.

Giles agrees quickly, and the two of us head out of the training room so he can grab his car keys and we can grab Dawn.

We say goodnight to Anya and Xander and the three of us pile into his tiny red car, making the usual jokes as we do, but a little half-heartedly.

When we pull up in front of the hospital, I can feel myself slowly building my defenses back up. Preparing to put on a brave face. Dawn hops out of the back seat and out on to the sidewalk. I move to follow her, but Giles stops me once more with the gentle call of my name.

I turn to face him, preparing myself for what he's about to say. I don't know if it'll be another things-you-already-know-but-let-me-remind-you speech, or if he'll ask me to tell him what exactly is going on with Mom.

But Giles surprises me a little by not doing either.

"You don't have to do everything on your own," he tells me, his eyes earnest as he looks at me now. "Your slaying, what's going on here…you have people who want to help." He sighs, putting his hand on the steering wheel. "When you feel like talking—"

"You'll be here," I finish for him, smiling again. It's a real smile. "I know. Thanks."

"There's something wrong with Mom," Dawn asks me quietly after we've waved Giles off. She turns her eyes to mine. "Isn't there."

I stare down at her, caught off guard, trying to think of something to say.

I could lie. I've been doing an awful lot of it lately, and it hasn't seemed to screw me over yet.

Yet.

"Why do you think that?" I finally decide to ask instead, looking away from her as we enter the hospital's big automatic doors.

Beside me, Dawn snorts.

"I'm fourteen, Buffy, not four," she scolds, folding her arms over her chest as we pass by the lobby. "You can't just dump me with your Watcher for 5 hours and expect me to think nothing's up."

I frown but still don't look at her, turning my attention over to the main desk to check in. The nurse behind the desk tells us what room we can find Mom in, and we head off in that direction.

"What did Giles tell you?" I ask after a minute.

We turn down a long hallway, then another, until we find the signs leading to Recovery.

"That we didn't know anything yet," Dawn says simply, shifting her eyes up to look at mine. I raise an eyebrow, and she shrugs. "Giles is a mega bad liar."

So, Dawn knows that something's up, that something's wrong, but she doesn't know what. Of course she doesn't. Giles doesn't even know. I'm not even sure Mom's doctor has told _her_ yet.

Right now, the only two people in the world that know what's going on are me and Spike.

I don't know what's freakier. The fact itself, or knowing that the fact doesn't make me feel as completely freaked as it probably should.

"Mom's going to be fine, Dawn," I tell her softly just as we come to a stop outside Mom's recovery room. I take a deep breath in, force a reassuring smile onto my face as I look back down at her. "That's all you need to remember."

I indicate to Dawn that she should wait out in the hall for a minute, and go into the room. "I need to see her doctor," I'd explained lamely before stepping inside and shutting the door.

Mom knows. It had been obvious to me immediately, as soon as I'd seen her. Her eyes had filled with tears and she'd reached for me.

We'd said a lot of things to each other, but most of them had been versions of the same thing, over and over again.

 _Everything's fine. It's going to be okay. These are the best Doctors. It's still too early to worry._

It doesn't matter if we don't believe it, or if we know that the words don't make it any better. We say them all anyway, because that's what you do.

After a couple minutes, a quick run down from Dr. Isaacs and a few deep breaths, Mom decides she's ready to see Dawn.

"You want me to stay?" I ask, squeezing her hand in between both mine.

I'm still not used to it. Seeing her in a hospital gown, little needles and tubes running from this machine and that, pumping in fluids, making little beeping and whirring sounds.

She doesn't look sick. Or like she has a brain tumor. She looks fine, if not a little tired.

Normal.

The disconnect between the two…it's a world of wrong.

"No, I'm fine," she says, taking a deep breath and glancing toward the closed door. "I-I think I should…talk to Dawn alone."

I nod, smiling. "Okay."

I turn toward the door, to let Dawn in, when Mom gasps.

I whip back around, panic gripping my chest. But she's smiling at me.

"Oh. Do I have bad hair?" She asks, putting her hands on her head. "I don't look like scary mom, do I?"

The icy grip relaxes on my heart, and I breathe a small sigh of relief.

"No," I assure her, smiling warmly. "You look beautiful.

I reach up and brush a stray piece of hair back from her forehead, and I can't help but recognize the way our roles have reversed.

It's been happening, I know. Slowly but surely. Ever since I was first called, and I realized every day things like classes and cheerleading would have to take a back seat to things like vampire slaying, and apocalypse averting.

I'd stepped into the protector role more easily than I had into the actual slaying role, especially when it had come to my family. Mom especially. I'd kept the slaying from her for two years for that very reason.

And even then, I'd needed her. Needed her to comfort me. When things went bad with Angel…both times. When things were rough my first semester at UC Sunnydale. I'd needed her to be there, be that source of constant support. Be my _Mom_.

It's the way she needs me now, or similar, if not exactly the same. To keep it together, be strong for her, for all of us.

Because she has a brain tumor.

And because I'm holding her hand while she lays in a hospital bed, with all the whirring and ticking and the beeping, and the tubes that lead to nowhere and a shadow in her brain that we don't know if we can remove and it's just wrong. All wrong. This, what we're doing now…this isn't supposed to happen for another forty years.

Mom gives me her best brave smile, completely oblivious to the raging chaos erupting inside my head.

"Okay," she says bravely, "Let's do this."

I turn to leave again, but she grabs for my arm once more. Her fingers curl gently into my sleeve as I look down at her.

"Stay close," she whispers.

I put my other hand on top of hers and whisper back, "I will."

I leave Dawn and Mom alone to talk, following Dr. Isaacs out of the room as he goes and out into the hallway. He spares me one, small smile before he turns and heads back down the opposite direction, leaving me alone.

Funny. I'd wanted pretty much nothing more than to be alone earlier tonight, when I'd first left Willow's. Now it's almost unbearable.

I decide I'm going to ask Mom if it's okay that I tell Giles, and the rest of the gang, tomorrow. It isn't so much that I want to tell them. Or even that I think them knowing will do anyone much good.

But it's bothering me now. The fact that the only person I've told hardly anything to at all about this isn't really a person at all.

It's the same wiggy feeling, though. Not bothered that I've told him, but bothered that I'm not bothered that I've told him. The same way I'd been ashamed that I wasn't ashamed of kissing him.

And what he'd done tonight…one minute he's the vicious, mocking vampire I've come to know and hate and the next he's asking how my mom is. Making me want to tell him things, open myself up. To the one person who's insults have always known just where to go, exactly what mark to hit, to cut me the deepest.

That's what I'd meant earlier, when I'd asked him why he does that. How he does it. Make me hate him one moment and crave him the next.

And not just physically, although that one makes a hell of a lot more sense than the other. I can explain away the physical. It's no secret that Spike is attractive, even at his Billy Idoliest. It had been my first reaction to him that first night… _another_ first night, outside The Bronze.

 _"_ _Nice work, luv."_

With the hair and the eyes and the cheeks. The accent. That infuriating smirk, the way you _know_ he knows exactly what that tongue curl thingie does.

Yeah, the attraction I get. It's the other that I can't wrap my head around.

When he'd dropped that wicked smirk and asked me how Mom was. When he'd sat beside me in complete silence for hours. When he'd reached out and patted me on the back. When he'd stopped and looked at me, really looked at me, like he was seeing me for the first time. Because that's the look in his eyes, the one I've seen glimpses of, the one I can't place.

Like he's looking at me and _seeing_ me.

And now he's out there in the cemeteries, patrolling. I don't know how I know, why I feel so sure that that's what he's doing. I just feel it. A gut instinct, the same way I always know when vamps are around.

But _why_?

That's the million dollar question, isn't it? For both of us.

 _Why._

I at least think I might know why I've done the things I have. I wonder if Spike knows why he's doing what he is.

Or maybe neither of us has any idea at all.

Because the more I think about it, really think about it…which, let's face it, I haven't had a whole lot of time to do…I get this sinking feeling in my gut that tells me I can't blame what's happened solely on the dreams.

The whole thing is twisting me up, certain trains of thought chasing around others until they're all spinning wildly around, confused and off track.

I close my eyes, leaning my back against the wall opposite my Mom's door.

My head is spinning in circles, and those circles have circles.

Thinking is overrated.

"Urgh," I huff out loud, frustrated, lifting my head off the wall and letting it drop back with a thud.

"Buffy?"

It's Mom. Her voice jars me, brings me back to the moment. I shake off the thoughts I've been having, bury them somewhere down deep for another time, or maybe never, and let myself back into her room.

I put on a bright smile.

"How's it going in here?" I ask, looking back and forth between Mom and Dawn. Both of their eyes are wet, but I don't see any splotchiness or puffiness, so I think it's safe to assume neither of them has made with the all out crying. Yet.

"Better," Mom says breezily, letting out a small sigh. She has one hand on Dawn's arm, and reaches out to me with the other. "Now that both my girls are here."

I step to the side of her bed and take the hand she's reached out toward me, squeezing. Dawn looks up at me and gives me a small smile. The first true smile she's given me in months.

I smile back, then turn my attention back to Mom.

"Have the doctors said anything else?" I ask, feeling free to ask the question now that the doctor in question is no longer in the room, and Dawn knows. "Do they...do they know, whether or not they can operate?"

her smile stays in place, doesn't falter even a little bit. But I can see it in her eyes. The question is either one she doesn't know the answer to, or doesn't have a good answer to.

I hold my breath, waiting to find out which it is.

"Not yet, sweetie," she says softly, giving my hand another squeeze. "Doctor Isaacs said we should know soon, maybe tomorrow. Just have to run a couple more tests."

I nod, letting the air out of my lungs in a long, shaky exhale.

Not knowing is okay. It's still bad. Awful, even. But it isn't a no. It isn't final. As long as we don't know the news, there's always a chance that the news could be good.

No news is good news. I think that's how it goes.

"When can we take you home?" I ask now.

The same shadowy looks passes over her eyes, but the smile still doesn't fall. I feel my shoulders tense up all over again.

"I-I'm not sure," she says, looking away from me, toward Dawn. "They need to keep me here over night, for sure. But the rest just depends on what the tests show."

Over night. Another night, more than what she'd planned for.

My brain jumps ahead, directly connecting with the things I'd seen at home, the cursory inspection I'd done of the items I'd thought she might need. I knew I should have packed some of them. An extra pair of clothes, a hair brush, something.

"Do you need anything?" I ask, glancing down at Dawn. "We can go back to the house, grab you anything you need."

But Mom just shakes her head, turning her eyes from Dawn back to me. "Honestly? I'm pretty beat. I think I might just try and get some sleep." She exhales a shaky little laugh. "Real sleep, not...medically induced."

I think it's meant to be a joke. At the very least, it's supposed to be light hearted. But it doesn't feel that way.

I smile brightly and force a small laugh anyway.

"Okay." I nod, stepping a little ways away from the bed and glancing around the room. "Well, what can we do then? We can hang here, do something quiet while you sleep."

Mom raises an eyebrow at me. "Like what, exactly?"

I look around the room, eyes landing I the small side table near a bank of two chairs opposite the hospital bed. There's a stack of books and what look like old People magazines. Probably the same as they were in the waiting room.

"I mean," I reach for one, glancing at the cover. It's from 1998. "I never did hear why Johnny and Kate split."

Mom chuckles, and I smile as I set it back down and pick up a little booklet instead. "And look," I say, all wide eyed enthusiasm as I hold it up, "crosswords."

I get a grin out of both Mom and Dawn, but I can tell by the look on Mom's face that it's more for our benefit than for hers.

I set the little crossword book back down and step up closer to her bed again.

I'll never get used to seeing her in it.

"You wanna know what will make me feel better?" she asks, looking at me meaningfully. "You can take your little sister home, and both of you can get some rest." She smiles at Dawn, squeezes her hand, then looks back at me. "You look exhausted, sweetheart."

She's the second person to say that to me in the last hour and a half. I guess I must really look as bad as I'm starting to feel.

"I'm fine," I assure her, the same way I had Giles. "Really. Are you sure we can't just stay?"

Mom shakes her head, taking on her best gentle but firm expression. "I'll feel better if I know you're at home, getting some real sleep, too."

"No, I want to stay here," Dawn says, drawing both Mom's and my eyes back to her. "With you."

"You can come back tomorrow hon," Mom promises her in a soothing, tired voice. "In the morning before school. And after." Her eyes come back to mine, stern again. "I don't want her missing another day, and I know you have exams coming up."

Exams. School. I haven't thought a thing about either of them in almost a week, let alone in the last couple days. I'd hardly even realized it was December already.

I'll have to get the notes on everything I've missed from Willow and Tara.

"Not for a couple weeks," I say dismissively, but in the back of my mind I'm trying to do the math. Can I even pass that history course now?

 _How many class periods have I missed?_

"Still," Mom's saying, bringing me back to the conversation. "You have other things to be thinking about, Buffy. Your friends, your training. Slaying-"

Yes, Slaying. Something I _can_ speak to.

"Giles has patrol tonight."

Mom looks dubious.

"By himself?"

 _Not exactly._

I think about Spike, the stake I'd seen him put in his pocket. How sure I feel that he's out there, too.

"He'll be fine."

"And so will I," Mom says, a note of finality in her voice. "I promise."

 _"I'm going to be fine."_

It's the same thing she'd said to me last night, before she'd left for the hospital. It feels different now, more urgent. It had been for me last night, I know that. The assurance she'd seen that I needed.

This time it feels more like it's for her, though. Like she needs me to believe it more than she thinks I need to hear it.

Because, I realize, she's scared. She's as scared as Dawn and I are.

There's something about this realization that sets something going in me, makes me stand just a little straighter as I look at my mom.

Something strong, and fiercely protective.

I think about my conversation with Willow tonight. About finding a healing spell, something general. She hadn't made me any promises, but she hadn't told me no, either.

Maybe if I go back and tell her what it is, exactly what it is, she'll have a different answer. Find something more specific.

"I know," I finally say to Mom, the same thing I'd said the night before.

And it's different this time, too. I know she's going to be fine, no matter what the next tests show.

 _Because I'm going to make sure of it._

I wait until Dawn falls asleep before I even think about going to my own bedroom. I know once my head hits the pillow, it'll be all over. So if Dawn needs me, is going to need me, I have to wait. I wait out in the hallway, watching her from a crack in her doorway. She cries a little, but it isn't as much as I expect her to. Not enough for me to barge into her room, force her into letting me comfort her.

I'm grateful.

I'd have done it if I thought she needed it, thought it would help. But after just a few minutes, her room goes quiet. The only sounds are her soft, rhythmic breathing. So I close the door softly, and head down the hall.

When I reach my room, I drop to the bed without bothering to change out of my clothes. All of it, the weight of everything that's happened in just the last 24 hours bearing down on me, making my muscles ache, my eyelids heavy. I hit the pillow and crash, closing my eyes, out like a light.

And I sleep. Hard.

When I wake up a few hours later, it's to the gentle sound of my bedroom door clicking closed. I struggle to open my heavy eyelids, glancing around a little blindly in the still-dark room for the source of the noise.

"Dawn?" I ask automatically, pushing myself to an awkward half sitting position, thinking maybe she can't sleep. That she does need my after all.

My breath catches, sticking in my throat when I hear it.

"It's me."

My eyes snap all the way open.

Spike. Spike, in my bedroom.

 _My bedroom._

I leap to my feet a little awkwardly, suddenly very awake, pulse racing. I'm glad now that I hadn't had the energy to remove my clothes, change. We might be treading an awkward line for mortal enemies right now, but it wouldn't be made any better if I was standing in front of him in my yummy sushi pajamas.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here?" I hiss, momentarily forgetting myself and not even bothering to whisper. I'm more hyper aware than I'd like to be that I'm standing directly between the bleached vampire and my bed. And he's standing directly between me and the closed door.

"Calm down," Spike says, bringing his hands in front of him, palms up. He narrows his eyes. "Don't want to wake Niblet, yeah?"

I stand there, blinking at him. I can't believe he's actually in here.

I should have had the invitation revoked. I should have done it years ago, after he'd first skipped town. Definitely after he'd come back the second time.

Or maybe after he'd tried to kill me using the Gem of Amarra.

Lots of times, so many different times. I've had Willow and Tara do a de-invite on the house twice— _twice_ — in the last couple months alone. Why had I never asked her to remove Spike's?

And now he's here. Standing here, in front of me, in my bedroom. Blocking the only path I have to the door.

I can't tell if the rapid pounding of my heart is because I'm horrified or excited. Maybe both. Maybe horrified that I'm excited.

 _There go those circles again._

Calm down. He wants _me_ to calm down?

"You're in my house!" I sputter, only half as indignant as I want it to be. It comes out breathy, flustered, not nearly as venomous as it should.

It's a stupid thing to say. Obvious.

He drops his hands down, raising an eyebrow. "Been here before, Slayer."

And it's true, he has. Outside the house. In the house, the kitchen. The living room.

But never _here._

"Not in my _room_ ," I clarify snippily, darting my eyes around his shoulder to the closed door.

My heart is pounding wildly now, worse than before, slamming against my ribs. I fold my arms over my chest. I think I'm hoping it'll block the noise from reaching Spike's ears.

It doesn't work.

I see the knowledge steel over his features, changing them from mildly confused to infuriatingly smug.

Spike tilts his head to the side, watching me through his lashes.

I swallow.

"Oh, I see," he purrs, smirking. "Makin' you nervous, am I?"

He is. I don't know why. I just saw him, not even four hours ago, and I hadn't reacted like this. Is it because he's here, in my space? So near to me, to where I sleep.

 _To where I dream about him every night._

I drop my gaze down to the floor, cheeks burning. I inhale a deep breath, and immediately wish I hadn't. His scent is so strong in the small space of my room. Smoke and leather mixing in this perfect, heady way with the vanilla of my girlish room.

It makes me dizzy.

I close my eyes, squeeze them tightly closed, then force them open again. When I look back up into his face, the knowing smirk is still there.

"Get out," I say, feeling the heat in my cheeks growing hotter by the second as he stands there, staring at me.

He can't be in here. Not here. Not here with me, and us, and his smell that's so perfectly _Spike_.

This can't happen. Not again.

 _Never_ again.

Spike seems to have different ideas.

"Now, now," he chides melodically, tilting his head to the side. "None of that." He steps further into the room. "I came here for a reason."

I hold my ground, even though the way my body is already starting to react to him is making me want to run and hide. I tilt my chin up, trying for defiant. Maybe annoyed.

All I feel is weak. In the knees.

"Just tell me what you want," I grit out between clenched teeth, schooling my face into an impassive expression, "and _go_."

Spike chuckles knowingly, clasps his hands together behind his back and drops his head, his gaze, down to the floor.

"If it were that easy," he murmurs, slowly sweeping his lashes up from my toes. Over my hips, my waist, lingering just long enough at my neck to make me shiver, before reaching my eyes again. "I wouldn't even be here."

He takes a slow, predatory step forward and I counter immediately, taking my own step back.

"It's exactly that easy," I say quickly, unfolding my arms and stepping further away from him. "I'm making it that easy."

My words make him pause, and I realize, a second too late, what it is I've said.

 _Oh, boy._

"All right, then." He takes two more steps forward, still slow, still stalking. "I think you know what I want, Slayer."

His voice is low, pure seduction when he says it. His eyes are stormy, burning into mine with a fierceness, an intensity I've never seen from anyone else. No one has ever looked at me like Spike does. Like he can see right through me, read my mind.

 _I think you know what I want._

Something inside of me starts to burn.

"Answers?" I ask, but I think I know even as the word leaves my lips that I know it isn't what he's thinking.

I can see what he's thinking. It's there in the smirk, the curling of his tongue. The dark, hungry look in his eyes as he approaches, continuing to close the space between with step after sensual, predatory step.

Me. He wants _me_.

And I want him. Even if my mind doesn't know it, won't admit it, my body does.

 _Oh, God._

"Hardly," he chuckles, stepping into my space, finally closing the small gap between us. "You see," he murmurs, reaching toward me, hooking his index finger inside my coat and moving it aside. "I've had a little time to think…"

"Think?" I ask, infusing my voice with something that should have been sarcasm but comes out breathless and heady instead. "You?"

And Spike hears it. The change in my voice, the very strong reaction I know my body is having to his nearness. He's felt it before. Knows what it's like. Know what it leads to.

His eyes widen just a little, nostrils flaring. My eyelashes flutter when he steps closer to me.

"And what I've realized," he says, dropping his voice to an impossibly low whisper. I wouldn't be able to hear him if he wasn't so close, _so close,_ to me now. "'s that it doesn't much matter _why_ what's happenin' is, well, happenin'."

He hooks his other index finger into the opposite side of my jacket, pushes it aside, too. It slides from my arms, falling to a puddle at my feet.

I stumble backward, trying one more time to put some distance between us. But there's no where to go. My heart is still pounding, pulse hammering in the hollow of my throat. The way he's looking at me now is setting my skin on fire. I think of his long, cool fingers. They way they'd felt wrapped around me, digging into my hips, my back. How they'd calm the raging heat in my veins if he'd just reach out and touch me.

My back comes to press into the wall behind me, in between my bed and my window. And I'm trapped.

"H-happened," I whisper, stammering a little, still clinging to any vestige of hope I have to keep him at bay, to resist this need I have for him, to make him put out the fire he's started building in my belly. "Past tense." I gulp, searching his eyes with mine. "Why it _happened_."

The word makes him growl, slam his hands down hard on the wall on either side of my head, blocking me in. I press back into the wall as far as I can, watching him with wide, unblinking eyes.

But he ignores what I've said, just keeps talking, staying on his train of thought.

"Only thing that matters," he whispers huskily, leaning in closer to me, ghosting his nose along the curve of my cheekbone until his lips reach my ear. "Is that it _is_."

I open my mouth to deny what he's saying on instinct, but he's quicker than I am. Claiming my lips with his, swallowing the protest even as it becomes a soft, whimpering moan.

I consider resisting, shoving him away from me for maybe all of .2 seconds before I give up, give in, throwing my arms around his neck.

One of his hands comes off the wall beside me to thread through my hair. He grips me tightly, a possessive way that makes me want to growl myself. He tangles his fingers in my hair, turning my head to deepen the kiss.

It's an echo of what our kisses were before, in the alley. It's still deep, still wild with that same rush of urgency. Of hot neediness, primal desire.

But it's different, too. Softer almost, and much slower. I slide my hands down to his shoulders; shove the leather duster away from his arms. He helps me, but only for a moment, before his hand comes back to my head and I hear the coat hit the floor with a thud.

I suck his tongue into my mouth, dragging my nails over the bare skin of his arms, and he groans. We take our time for a moment with this kiss. Exploring, tasting and teasing each other in a way we hadn't before. Somewhere in the back of mind the warning bells are clamoring.

 _Dawn's in the bedroom next door._

 _I should be getting some rest._

 _I shouldn't be kissing Spike like I've been lost in the desert for days and his lips are water._

But that's what his lips taste like.

Water and blood. A combination of darkness and death, but somehow also life.

I moan against his lips again and his other hand comes off the wall. Drops to wrap firmly around my waist, pull me against him.

He spins us around in one sweeping, effortless movement and then we're lying on top of my mattress. He never releases me, never removes his lips from mine. And I cling to him, too. My hands gripping hard on either side of his face, drinking in the flavor of his lips.

"It's all right, pet," he whispers against my mouth, untangling his hand from my hair.

He brings it down, splays his fingers over my hip and my breath catches as he begins to push up slowly. The fabric of my shirt bunches under his hand, revealing inch after inch of my skin to his hungry touch as he goes. Fanning the flames in my stomach, my lungs as his fingers creep higher.

He pulls back from me as his fingertips come to rest at the tender skin just below the swell of my breast.

His eyes are dark, pupils blown as he whispers, "It'll be our little secret."

I reach up and pull him greedily back down, kissing him with a renewed sense of urgency. Trapping his hand between our bodies, beneath my shirt.

It's the same as it had been before, behind The Bronze. All frenzied touches and the desperate, needy pulsing of my hips rocking against his. Needing to feel him, needing the friction.

But it's different, too. Isn't quite the hard, violent pounding that it had been. It's like the kiss against the wall. Different but the same. Hard and soft at the same time.

I feel it all, feel everything, and even as I surge against him, rubbing myself hard against the denim of his jeans, the scene shifts.

The clothes that I'm wearing feather away into nothing, like they're made of sand and the wind has just blown. The black cotton of his t-shirt, the dark denim of his jeans seem to melt away.

And then it's just the two of us, skin to skin. No barriers, no pretense. He's over me, surrounding me, inside of me. Our foreheads are pressed intimately together, my body thrumming, writhing beneath his as he presses me down. Pinning me into the soft mattress with every swirl of his hips, every achingly slow thrust.

And he's whispering to me. Not the harsh, dirty words from before. He murmurs deep, rumbling litanies of praise, hot whispered words against my lips. My arms are around his bare back, holding him to me. I trail my hands up to his shoulders, burying them in the soft curls of his hair. Clinging to him, matching his every movement with one of my own.

"Spike," I hear myself whisper, holding him more tightly against me, breath fanning lightly over his lips. " _Please_."

At first, I don't know what I'm asking for.

And then I hear the sound. The shifting of bones, of cartilage. When he pulls his head back away from me, I'm staring up dazedly into gleaming gold.

But I don't pull away. Don't cringe, don't feel afraid. Instead, I feel inexplicably pulled to it, his demon. Connected with it. His eyes are so much, so overwhelming. And I see everything in them. That look, the look I've just seen the barest flickers of, pours out of his demon's gaze and burns into mine. I still can't place it. Still don't know what it is. But here in my bedroom, with my shaking legs tangled around his waist and the soft linen sheets beneath me, drenched in sweat, it doesn't matter.

 _I don't care._

And without another word, without anything else passing between us, I put my hand around the back of his neck and pull his head down to my throat. White hot, stinging pain erupts behind my eyes as his fangs slice through my skin, every nerve in my body alight as my inner muscles spasm and contract at the same time.

And I come, shudder and fall apart in his arms just as he takes the first deep pull of my blood.

I wake up with a shout, sitting bolt upright in bed. My legs are shaking, head light. Breath coming in quick, ragged gasps.

The jacket I'd never actually bothered to peel off is hot, sticking to my back.

I glance around the room in a daze, not sure what it is I'm looking for. Maybe something tangible...his duster on the ground, a pack of cigarettes, his little silver lighter. Anything to let me know that Spike had been here, actually _here_ , in my bedroom.

But there's nothing, because he hadn't been.

It was only a dream.

A _much_ different dream than the one I've been having, but a dream just the same. I wonder if maybe the dream has switched, is different now because we…

I close my eyes.

It had felt so real. So, so real. Everything, from the impossible taste of his mouth to the weight of his lean muscled body on top of mine. His soft platinum curls beneath my fingertips.

And the pain.

The pain from his bite had only driven my need for him higher, sending me crashing harder over the edge than I ever have before. Because it hadn't been violent, and I hadn't felt afraid.

And it was just a dream.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to calm my breathing.

 _Just a dream._

It's at this point that I realize I've had my hand at my neck, nails pressing hard little half moons into the bruised spot where Spike had bitten me the night before.

 _"_ _Spike, please."_

I'd asked him to do it. Bite me. In my dream. Looking into his golden eyes, understanding completely what it was I was asking for.

My body had been aching for it.

But that doesn't make sense.

Even with Angel, I hadn't wanted it. I'd done it, sure, but it hadn't been for me. It hadn't had anything to do with me. I'd done it for him. To save him.

But I'd asked for it in my dream. Practically begged him. And I don't understand why.

Even now, my nails are still pressing into my neck. I haven't bothered to move my hand away.

As though I've been burned, I yank my hand away, staring at my offending fingertips with wide eyes. Blood. I see little flecks of crimson dotted beneath my nails.

And now I begin to wonder, the little lusty Buffy I've tried to bury down deep, especially when it comes to Spike, breaking through the haze of my scattered mind. His bite had been painful, yes, but also soft, almost tender in the same way he'd touched me on the back porch last night.

 _Just a dream?_

And it was there, too. That same darkness from the alley, the blood and the sex all combined together.

 _Or a fantasy?_

A shrill tingle rockets down my spine, drawing my attention up and toward my bedroom window.

It's hazy outside, the sky just starting to lighten from somewhere over to the east. The same milky shade of blue from the day before, blending at the seams with the dark, almost blue-black of early morning.

Still shaking, head still spinning, I put my hands down on the bed on either side of my hips and push, shoving my body back as far as I can against the pillows crowding the headboard.

I tuck my legs up into my chest, wrapping my arms around them. Even with as tired as I am, all my muscles feeling like dead weight, I won't be going back to sleep tonight.

Even if the dream hadn't been enough to rattle me, there'd be no shot. No chance at all now.

Because I _feel_ him. Spike. I know he's there, as inexplicably as I'd known for some reason that he'd gone out patrolling tonight. Standing somewhere outside my window. Maybe under the tree, maybe across the street. Possibly even further away than that. I can't see him from where I'm sitting, and I don't make a move to go to the window to check. I don't want to.

I just _feel_ it.

I don't need to see him to know that he's there.

And that wigs me more than almost anything else that's happened.


	14. Chapter 14

Even though I'd been sure I wouldn't be able to fall back to sleep, I somehow manage to.

I don't dream this time.

When I wake up again, the sun is up, and I no longer feel that niggling tug that tells me Spike's somewhere nearby. I think I should probably be relieved, but I'm not sure that's exactly what I'm feeling.

When I go to the bathroom for a shower I force myself to stop and look in the mirror. Mom and Giles were right, I do look tired.

 _Really tired._

I sigh, scrubbing my hands over my face, leaning forward over the counter top. God, the bags under my eyes are starting to get bags of their own. How long has it been since I've slept, really slept, without some sort of wiggy nighttime erotica visit from Spike?

Too long.

I exhale again, puffing my lips out and letting the little stream of air blow a strand of hair out of my face. There's so much to do today. I need to get Dawn and go see Mom at the hospital, get her over to school. I'll have to get to the Magic Box, too. Call a Scooby Meeting.

Check in with Giles on how patrol went last night. I wonder if he noticed anything…different while he was out there. Of the bleached blonde variety.

Ugh.

I start to absently comb my fingers through my hair, pulling it up off my neck and back into a high pony tail. It's only when I leans down to turn on the faucet that I see it.

The mark on my neck.

I can't see much, not past the bruising and discoloration. It's already starting to heal, turning a very attractive shade of greeny yellow. But it isn't the bruise I'm focused on now.

It's the two little wounds, the tiniest puncture holes at the center of it that have me staring.

I know they hadn't been there before.

I'd thought the blood last night, the flecks of blood beneath my nails, had been from me. Self inflicted.

I lean closer to the mirror, laying my hands on either side of the mark and pulling the skin taut so I can see it better. I'm looking for half moon shapes. Little scrapes that might look like they came from my nails digging into my skin. But I don't see any.

Is it possible that I could have left these little holes instead?

It's the only logical explanation. Spike hadn't been anywhere near me last night, not after I got home from the hospital. He hadn't been in my room.

He hadn't bitten me.

So these marks…they have to be from me.

I don't know if that makes it better or worse.

I take as quick a shower as I can, which still runs a little on the long side, and getting dressed with just enough time to poke my head into Dawn's room and make sure she's gotten ready for school.

I give a brief cursory knock but don't wait for her to acknowledge it before I push the door open.

"Dawn, are you about ready to go?" I ask, pushing the door all the way open and stepping inside. "We need to leave soon if we're going to go see Mom—"

I freeze, stopping mid-sentence when I see her. She's full dressed and ready, her back pack on the bed beside her. She has a framed photo in her hands. I can't see exactly which one from where I'm standing, but I can tell that it's one of the three of us. Dawn, Mom and me.

"Dawn?" I ask, still frozen, hand resting on the door knob.

She sniffles, but doesn't look up at me.

"Do you remember the day after Dad left?" She asks softly, voice thick. "Mom took us shopping at that outlet mall in Santa Monica, and then we went to the beach."

I remember.

Of course I remember.

It had been a guilt trip, in the truest sense of the word. Mom had spent the entire weekend buying us anything and everything we asked for.

I pause for a moment, still gripping on to the door.

"What made you think of that?" I ask softly, as softly as she's spoken.

She looks up at me, her eyes puffy.

"It was the first time it was really just us," she says, "just the three of us."

Dawn had cried for a week after Dad left. The day after, that first day, had been the worst. She was little. Somewhere between 9 and 10, and she didn't understand.

Hell, I was fifteen and I barely understood.

"Yep," I say, crossing to her and dropping down lightly onto the bed beside her. "The start of The Three Musketeers."

Dawn looks up at me, eyebrow raised. She sniffles again, but there's a tiny smile quirking the corner of her lip. "Lame."

"What?" I ask, reaching down and taking the framed photo from her. "You like Three Blind Mice better?"

Dawn wrinkles her nose.

"There aren't very many good options," she murmurs.

I smile and look down at the photo in my hands. It isn't even one from the day she's talking about, but is actually one we'd taken just over the summer.

All three of us look so bright, so…shiny. Our eyes are clear, smiles wide. I stare down at myself, thinking about the difference between the girl smiling back at me and the one I'd seen in the mirror this morning.

Hard to believe this was just a couple months ago.

"Its a good picture," I say, handing it back to Dawn. She takes it from me, reaches over and places it on her nightstand.

I look at her for a moment, see the fresh tears starting to well up in her eyes. I reach toward her tentatively, taking a strand of her hair in my hands and combing through it.

"You wanna talk about it?" I ask, taking the strand of hair I've been combing and pushing it back over her shoulder.

There's a short pause before my sister sighs, turning wet eyes to look at me.

"It's been the three of us for so long," she murmurs, blinking up at me. "I don't want it to be just us two."

Her eyes fill up with fresh tears as she looks at me, and my heart breaks a little in my chest.

I want to cry with her. I want to wrap my arms around her and bury my head in her shoulder and cry for everything we could lose.

The maybes and the what if's and the hope for the bests.

For everything we still don't know.

If the doctors can operate. How they'll treat it if they can't. What we're going to do if this isn't a fight we can win. What a future with just us two might look like.

But I can't do that.

So I don't.

Instead, I reach out and put my hand on her knee, squeezing assuringly.

"It won't be," I say, searching her eyes with mine and willing them to stay dry. "I promise."

Mom's still very tired when we stop by to visit her. Dr. Isaacs is there again, and he does his best to explain to Dawn and I the extra tests they'll be running throughout the day. I don't even understand half of it, but I nod and act like I do anyway. What it all boils down to is whether or not they'll be able to operate and remove the tumor or not. In the mean time, he says, Mom may not entirely be herself. The tumor is pressing on an area of her brain that affects…something, so she might say or do things that seem out of character.

But it should just be flashes, quick instances, nothing permanent.

Unless they can't operate, I think, but don't say anything out loud.

We say goodbye to Mom when the doctor indicates we should, promising to be back at the end of the day.

I don't like the idea of leaving her here alone all day, but when I mention coming back after I drop Dawn off at school I get the look. The one that tells me she'll feel worse if I'm here hovering than if I'm out taking care of the things I need to handle.

So I drop it, take Dawn to school and head straight for the Magic Box.

I'm only a little surprised when I arrive to find everyone else is already there. I'd given Giles a call before leaving for the hospital this morning, just to throw out the idea that I'd like to have a chance to talk to the gang all together. But we hadn't set a specific time, and I hadn't given many more details than just that.

I probably should have known.

When I enter the shop, I see Willow and Tara first, sitting side by side on one end of the research table across from a bored looking Xander.

He's in the midst of stuffing a jelly donut in his mouth.

Giles is behind the counter bickering back and forth very quietly with Anya over something clearly having to do with the crystal he has in his hand.

It's weird. Even though everyone's here, I can't shake the feeling that there's something missing. Dawn's not here, sure, but she isn't overly involved with this sort of thing normally.

So what is it?

I'm glancing around, trying to pin point what it is I feel like I'm forgetting when I notice Willow look up in my direction.

She smiles at me first, but then her expression grows cloudy. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's seeing the expression on my face.

Everyone's eyes are on me as I walk further into the Magic Box, down the steps and over to the table.

Willow opens her mouth to say something, but I put my hand out to stop her.

"If you tell me how tired I look, we're gonna have a problem."

It's a half joke, but it comes out a little snappier than I would have liked it to.

Willow frowns, dropping her voice down lower.

"I was going to ask how you were doing," she says meaningfully, turning her body to face me.

Oh, right.

I'd honestly almost forgotten about our conversation the day before.

The reason I'm here now.

"I'm…okay," I tell her honestly, trying for a small, reassuring smile. It turns into more of a grimace. "A little overwhelmed. Actually am kind of tired." I pause, shrugging. "Just don't want to know that I look like it."

I turn my gaze down to the table, to the books scattered across it. Several of them are open, ear marked.

"What's all this?" I ask, reaching forward and picking one off the pile.

"Research," Willow tells me, turning back to face the books in front of her. "On what you…" she trails off, pausing, shifting her eyes up to mine, "asked me about. Yesterday."

So I guess this is as good a time as any.

I smile at her, laying the dusty book back down. "It's okay, Will."

I clear my throat, turning my attention up and angling my body slightly so I can see everyone at the same time.

"I have something to tell you guys," I begin, glancing around the room, "about Mom. What's been making her sick."

Xander swallows a mouthful of donut and leans over the table, closer to me.

"Is it a spell?" he asks, looking from me over to Willow and back again. "Willow told us you thought it might be."

I sigh, expelling the air through my nose.

"No," I say, thinking back to a few weeks ago. The epically failed trance. "No spell. I, uh…" I pause, glancing around at all the eyes focused on me. There's a strange mix of emotions here. I see everything from anxiety, to fear, to bemusement, to concern. "It's a tumor. In her brain." My eyes meet and rest on Giles. "It's…it's a brain tumor."

The second time I've said it out loud, and it isn't any easier than the first.

The room falls completely silent. The vice-like grip that's been periodically squeezing my heart contracts again.

Wasn't telling them supposed to make it feel better?

I don't feel better.

"I mean," I continue on, looking from one pair of wide, shocked eyes to the next. "There's still a lot we don't know. They're running more tests now, to see if they can operate or not."

It's very quiet for another minute before Xander finally tries to speak.

"A brain tumor?" he repeats, sounding the words out slowly. "But that's…" He trails off, glancing toward Anya, then back to me. He's struggling to find the words. "I mean, it's so…"

"Normal." Willow supplies softly.

Xander blinks, still looking at me. "Yeah."

But it isn't normal. There's nothing normal about this. Sure, I know what they mean. As far as the Big Bads go, a brain tumor is well on the normal side of the scale. In comparison to sucking the world into hell demons and Master Vampires and Mayor-turned-giant-snakes, it sounds like this should be a breeze.

It's that the thing that other people, normal people, have to fight.

Not us.

"I know," I murmur, folding my arms over my chest. "And we don't normally deal in normal. That's why I went to Willow yesterday—"

"Wait a minute," Xander interrupts me, turning wide eyes on the red head in question. "You knew? You knew about this yesterday and you didn't tell me?"

Willow turns to look at him, pretty green eyes very large.

"No!" She shouts. Then, a little quieter, "I mean, no." She looks at me, then back to him. Her cheeks are flushing bright red. "I mean, I didn't know know. Buffy didn't tell me it was a tumor, she just asked me to do some research."

"I asked her not to say anything, Xand," I explain further, gesturing back toward Giles. "She and Giles, both."

I don't know if hearing that both Willow and Giles knew something was going on before he did makes Xander feel better or worse, but he doesn't say anything else. He sort of has that hurt puppy look on his face, though.

I wait another minute to see if anyone else has something to say, and then continue on.

"What I was saying, is that I went to Willow because I figure there has to be some kind of mystical cure for it." I turn my eyes to her. "A potion, or a spell or something?"

I'm asking her as much as I am explaining to the others. I haven't heard anything from her on the subject since yesterday afternoon.

"I've been looking," Willow assures me earnestly. She looks over to Giles, then down to the book in front of her. "But I…I haven't seen anything."

My heart sinks.

"Nothing?" I ask.

Willow shakes her head, looking back up at me.

She'd told me yesterday that she couldn't make any promises. That she'd look, but she wasn't sure of anything like the general healing spell I'd asked her to find.

But that was before she'd known, before I'd told her about the tumor.

"Does it help," I begin again, stepping toward the table, the stack of books in front of her, "knowing what it is specifically?"

"I doubt it," Giles says, jarring me, bringing my eyes back to him. He frowns, removing his glasses. "The truth is, the mystical and the medical aren't meant to mix, Buffy."

He steps forward, stuffing his free hand in the pocket of his jacket. "The human mind is very delicate. Too much can go wrong."

I frown at him, brow furrowing. It isn't the answer I want to hear. Not the answer I'd been expecting from him.

Anything you need from me. Isn't that what he'd said at the hospital?

"Yeah." It's Tara this time, her voice very gentle as she agrees with Giles. "I've heard stories about people trying healing spells. If we did something…" she trails off, shaking her head. "It could make things a lot worse, Buffy."

I stare at her now, trying to process what I'm hearing.

Worse.

Kind of hard to imagine worse, what's worse than what we're dealing with now.

Losing Mom. Losing Mom would be worse.

But that could happen either way, whether we tried something mystical or not.

The thought brings an icy flush to my cheeks, stinging tears to my eyes.

No.

Doing nothing isn't an option. I'd told Mom she was going to be fine. That I knew she'd be fine. I promised Dawn.

"There has to be something," I say, turning pleading eyes first to Giles, then to Willow. "We have to do something."

"Relax Buff," Xander says, closing the book in front of him with a snap. "We'll figure it out."

But I can't relax. How am I supposed to relax?

"Before we do anything," Giles again, gesturing toward the piles of books with his glasses to indicate what he means by 'anything', "we need more information. The size of the tumor, where it's located—"

"The frontal lobe," I murmur, suddenly remembering very clearly what Dr. Isaacs had told us this morning. "They said it's somewhere in the frontal lobe." I glance around the room. "I don't remember where, exactly."

So that's good. That's an answer, one I can give. We know where it is.

But Giles doesn't look happy. If anything, he looks even more concerned.

I frown, not understanding.

"Buffy, the frontal lobe…controls behavior." He puts his glasses back on, looking at me seriously. "Emotions, impulses. If we try a healing spell and it goes wrong, your mother…" he pauses, like he's searching for the right words. "We could fundamentally change who she is as a person."

The words hit me, but not with as much weight as they probably should. I'm thinking about other things now, thinking about the reality of my situation. What Dawn said to me this morning…that she didn't want it to be just us two. And I'd promised. I'd promised her it wouldn't be, that I wouldn't let that happen.

I don't know why I thought that was a promise I could make.

"But she'd be here," I say, so quietly I'm not sure I've spoken out loud at all. I raise my head, focusing intently on Giles. "She'd still be here."

His eyes widen, eyebrows shooting up.

"Yes," he agrees cautiously, looking at me like I've just sprouted a second head. "She'd still be here, but she could be a, a vastly different version of herself."

I'm hearing him. Really, I am. But I'm not listening.

My head is back in that hospital room, where they're running the extra tests. With Mom, waiting to find out the news.

"Okay," I say, thinking about what he's said. "So, wouldn't the same be true for surgery?" My voice is getting higher, pitching up with every word. Panicked. "Even if they can operate, wouldn't there be a risk of damaging her brain that way, too?"

"It isn't the same thing," Giles warns, stepping closer to me. "Medical repercussions are very different from magical–"

"Why?" I yell suddenly, uncrossing my arms and fixing him with a hard look. "Because you say so?"

The room goes silent again. Giles and I stare at each other, but I can feel everyone else looking at us, too. No one says a word.

I hadn't meant to snap like that. I know everyone's just trying to help, to give me the best advice they can.

And no one knows better than I do that I'm not acting like myself right now. Not making smart decisions.

Rationality has not been one of Buffy's better qualities as of late.

"Look, I-I'm sorry," I say, tearing my gaze away from his, looking around to encompass everyone. "I just...I came to you for help, because I thought telling you would make it better." My eyes land on Giles again. "You're supposed to make it better." I exhale a shaky breath, searching his eyes. "And all you're doing is telling me that there's nothing I can do."

Giles sighs too, stepping closer toward me.

"I didn't say there was nothing we could do, Buffy." He pulls his hand out of his pocket, crossing them over his chest in that thoughtful way he does when he's considering something. "I just think we're getting ahead of ourselves. We should wait, find out whether or not the surgeons think they can operate."

I nod, conceding. There's still a little voice in the back of my head that's disagreeing with him, but I'm trying to beat it back.

"Fine," I say, "we should find that out tonight." I set my jaw determinedly. "But if they can't…"

Giles nods, doing a little cone ding of his own. "Then we'll explore our other options."

It's operable. The tumor in Mom's brain.

The surgeon who reviewed her scans says the tumor itself is , and that he's fairly confident he'll be able to get clean margins on it.

He told me that part like I was supposed to know what it meant.

Whatever it means, it felt like good news. Really good news. Everyone was happy and smiling, and Mom looked more rested and more at ease than I've seen her the past two days. Her surgery is scheduled for two days from tomorrow, and the doctor told Dawn and I that she'd be able to come home and sleep in her own bed starting tomorrow if we were up to looking out for her for a couple days.

We'd jumped on that pretty fast. The doctor sort of tried to scare us out of it, but neither Dawn or I were having it.

I'd decided to go ahead and call Giles to tell him the news. After the way things ended between us in the Magic Box today, I wasn't really feeling the whole insightful I'm-not-gloating-I'm-just-British sort I told you so from him. But, as it turns out, getting good news kind of makes you not care about all that stuff.

He'd offered to take patrol for the rest of the week, but I'd turned him down. As much as I appreciated the offer, the idea of getting back out there and doing some good old fashioned Slayage had actually sounded really good to me, so I'd asked Anya and Xander if it was okay if Dawn crashed with them for tonight, stashed a couple stakes in the waistband of my pants and headed out.

I haven't patrolled, I realize now, walking at a leisurely pace through the first cemetery on my route. Not since the night when I was all with the major blood loss. And the next night had been Spike, and the next had been dealing with things at the hospital.

Has it really only been three days? It feels so much longer.

No wonder I'm so antsy.

I'm craving it tonight. The hunt, the surge of adrenaline, the wild rushing in my veins that I only get when I'm fighting. I can feel it all the way down to the tips of my toes and rolling back up my body in waves.

I need to hit something.

I twirl one of my stakes absently in my hand, weaving in and out between some of the larger headstones, wondering why it's the nights that I want a good fight that I never find one.

And then I hear it. Not far away, maybe a few yards to my left, the sound of fresh dirt being shifted. I come to a stop, peering over the headstone I'm standing behind. Sure enough, there's a fledgling crawling its way up and out of its grave.

I frown, wrinkling my nose up.

 _Pretty unglamorously, too._

Pretty unglamorously, too.

And young. He looks like he's only about my age, if not even a little younger. High school, maybe.

I frown.

I don't like fighting the younger ones as much. I mean, yeah, it's part of the job. But something about the high schoolers…they always remind me of Jesse. And Ford.

But whoever this kid was, he isn't that anymore.

I wait a second longer, letting him pull himself all the way out and stagger to his feet, before taking off.

I sprint toward him at full speed, stopping only when I'm just in front of him. I spin around, landing a hard roundhouse to his jaw.

He stumbles back, caught off guard, but recovers pretty quickly and lunges for me.

He's clumsy, though. Not used to his strength, doesn't have a handle on his speed, and I dodge his first blow, whirling out of his way easily. WE go back and forth like this a few times. I land several more kicks, and one particularly smooth uppercut to his jaw, all the while dancing around him.

This is perfect. Exactly the type of slay I need to get me back in the game.

I've just finished testing out a new punching combination I've been working on with Giles when I lose my footing, dropping my defensive position for a fraction of a second.

It's just long enough for him to get a hit in, backhanding me across the face and sending me stumbling stomach first into the headstone to my left.

In the time it takes for me to regroup and turn around, I'm just in time to see the fledge I'd been fighting explode into dust with a high pitched wail.

Through the cloud of ash, I'm only the tiniest bit surprised to see Spike.

Immediately, the images from my dream assault my senses, mingling with the very real memories from The Bronze.

It's been two days now. Two days since the alley, and still, even him being this close, the delicious blend of leather and smoke that's becoming inextricably linked with sex in my mind, is enough to make my mouth water.

Not that I'm ready to let him know that.

"Spike!" I shout, pushing myself off the headstone behind me and charging toward, crossing the small space in three strides. "That one was mine."

The bleached vampire just looks at me, smirking as he twirls the stake in his hand once before stuffing it in his pocket.

"Sorry, Slayer," he says lightly, not sounding very sorry at all. "Didn't see your name written anywhere."

He tilts his head to the side, eyes dark and glittering in the moonlight. My heart rate picks up. Not much, not like it had in my dream, but enough that I'm pretty sure he can sense it.

I ignore it, stuffing my own stake back into my waistband and look up at him, eyes narrowed.

"I was in the middle of fighting him," I say pointedly, like it's obvious, crossing my arms over my chest.

Spike snorts.

"No." he draws the word out, his smirk turning more irritated and less amused. "You were in the middle of toying with him." He shakes his head, managing to look somehow smug and disappointed at the same time. "Good way to get yourself stabbed again, that is."

I make a face at him, brow furrowing. If I didn't know any better, I'd say it almost sounded like he was concerned. Or maybe not concerned, exactly, but he's definitely not with the seething hatred I've come to know and understand.

Reciprocate.

Except for recently. There hasn't been a whole lot of that from either one of us, really. I'd only begun to notice it, to be wigged by it, the other night on the porch when I'd told him about Mom.

But it's been going on for longer than that. For a few weeks now, at least. Even before I'd kissed him the first time.

And there definitely hasn't been any in the past few days. There's been fighting, sure. Arguing. Name calling. Denial. A couple threats, one or two violent outbursts that hadn't amounted to much of anything at all.

But no hatred.

I know why I've been behaving so weirdly.

Or at least a part of me does, even if that part is being choked out by all my more rational, logical, non-demon kissing parts.

But what's Spike's excuse?

I don't realize how long it's been since I've spoken until Spike steps away from me, allowing my head to clear.

"I'm fine," I say, only vaguely remembering what it is we'd been talking about.

"Yeah?" He raises a scarred eyebrow, considering me. "I'd wager you're just barely healed up from the last time." And then he leers at me, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "Haven't exactly been takin' it easy."

There's no mistaking what it is he's talking about. If the eyebrows hadn't given it away, the honeyed purr of his voice would have. My pulse quickens again, and my breath betrays me, catching in my throat as his eyes rake slowly over my body, down to my toes and back up again.

Heat warms my cheeks, and I take a little, impulsive step away from him.

The moment is so much, so much, like my dream the night before. I wonder dimly if maybe I could be dreaming this all over again.

Does my subconscious have a thing for that way he looks at me? Azure eyes burning into me, inch by inch. Like they could melt the clothes from my skin.

God, it's like he has x-ray vision or something.

"You're a pig, Spike." The old standby is out, tumbling past my lips in a rush that holds none of the venom it should.

He knows it, too. His answering smirk is devastating.

Change the subject.

"What are you even doing out here, anyway?" I demand, holding my ground, tilting my chin up and tightening my arms across my chest.

I don't know if its the sudden change in my voice, or the fact that I've managed to get my pulse under control that has the smirk falling now.

"What am I…?" He trails off, frowning. Like the question couldn't have been sillier. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

What it looks he's doing is patrolling.

In fact, I'm sure that's what he's doing.

And this isn't the weird sort of knowing I'd felt last night, both at the hospital and in my bedroom. This is more obvious.

The stake in his pocket last night had been one indication, but seeing him physically stake a fledgling tonight pretty much sealed the deal.

So I decide to ask.

"Were you patrolling?"

Spike sputters, scoffs, putting on a show of indignation that I wouldn't buy for a penny.

"Was I what?" He asks finally, blinking at me.

He has to be the worst liar I've ever met. Honestly, I don't know why he even bothers.

I cock my hip to the side, tired of all the pretense. I just want to know if what I'd felt last night was right.

Then I can figure out why I felt it in the first place.

"Don't play dumb with me, William," I say, drawing out his given name purposefully. It's weird. Really weird, like it might as well be a foreign language.

Is it the first time I've ever used it? I can't remember. I can't think of another time when I would have had reason to.

And I'm not sure what effect I'd expected it to have on him when I'd said it, but I don't think it's the one I'm getting now.

Spike's staring at me with wide eyes, lips slightly parted like he wants to say something but can't think of what. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it again. Repeats the motions a couple more times. Finally, he turns on his heel and starts to walk away from me.

I frown as I watch him storm away. I'm just about to call after him when I remember where I am, who I am, and stop myself.

It's at the exact same moment when Spike comes to an abrupt stop, whirls around and marches back to me. He stops maybe a foot away from me, looking down into my face with dark eyes.

"All right, fine," he says, voice low as his eyes search mine. "Maybe I was. But I wasn't patrollin', or whatever the bloody hell you goodie goodies call it."

He's said it all in one breath, a long-winded rush, and I feel a little like I've been hit by something in my chest. There's a little knot tightening there. Spike takes a deep, unneeded breath in and exhales slowly through pursed lips. "It's just a...predator thing," he continues, much slower now. Like the worst of this confession is over. "This delightful little government chip in my head keeps me from doin' any damage to humans, yeah?" He looks away from me, shrugging his leather duster further onto his shoulders. "Have to get my fix in some how."

It's the first time I feel like he's given me somewhat of a truthful answer about what he's been doing out here. None of this "I'm on my way to get a drink" crap.

I stare at him a moment longer, then unfold my arms.

"Were you out getting your 'fix' last night, too?" I ask, not knowing what I want his answer to be.

If he says no, then I can probably just dismiss the weird knowingness I'd felt last night as nothing. Maybe just a by product of the dreams, or over thinking whatever it is that's been going on between us the last few days.

But if he says yes…then there's a connection. Some kind of connection between Spike and me that I'm not so sure I want to know more about.

That I'm not ready to know more about.

The way Spike's looking at me now, I can't tell if the answer is yes or no. He doesn't look indignant now. Or smug.

His expression is cloudy, heavy brows drawn together as midnight eyes search my face.

When he finally opens his mouth to speak, all that comes out is a murmured "Why?"

It's the one response I hadn't prepared for.

Why? Why do I want to know if he'd gone out patrolling last night?

"I…" I begin, but trail off when I realize how completely ridiculous what I'd been about to say will sound.

I thought I could feel you last night. I'd somehow just known that you were going to be out patrolling, and then I'd felt you outside my window after having a very vivid sexual dream about you.

I snap my mouth close, clear my throat and murmur, "No reason."

Spike might be a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them. He eyes me, titling his head back and raising his eyebrows expectantly.

"Just checking," I add lamely, hoping it'll be enough to make him drop it.

It isn't.

"Oh, c'mon Slayer," he sighs, exasperated, letting out a short, mocking laugh. "Just bloody tell me what this is all about already."

"I don't know what you're—"

"You know," he says, cutting me off and chuckling again, narrowing his eyes. "this whole mum's the word bit is gettin' real old, real fast."

I feel my cheeks warm again, but not for the same reason as before. I'm starting to get angry.

He's frustrated with me, and I get that. Hell, I can even admit he has a right to be.

But I'd told him just last night that if he wanted an explanation, I'd give him one. He just had to ask.

And he hadn't.

"I gave you an opening," I say heatedly, reaching out to poke him in the chest and stopping about halfway. Spike looks confused for a moment, but then he tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowing seductively.

I realize what it is I've just said and add hurriedly, "to ask a question. I told you I'd answer one."

Spike steps closer to me. We're only about half a foot away from each other. So close I can feel his cool breath on my lips, would only have to step up on my tip toes to cover my mouth with his.

And I want to.

"Got me there," he whispers, eyes dropping down to the curve of my upper lip.

My pulse skips, pounding hollowly at the base of my throat as the moment stretches on between us.

But then he steps way from me, turning his back, walking a few feet and stopping just to the right of the freshly opened grave.

"So what is the word on Joyce," he says casually, his voice completely different than it had been a moment ago. He turns back to face me, expression impassive. "Any news?"

My head is spinning.

"Uh," I mumble incoherently, shaking my head to come back to myself, "yeah, actually." And for some reason, I just keep talking. "The doctors say that the tumor is operable."

Spike raises his eyebrows, inclining his head toward me. "So they can operate, then?"

I nod, still trying to figure out what just happened. "Kind of what operable means."

"Well, good," he says, nodding absently, dropping his eyes away from mine and back down to the grass at the graveside. "Glad she's goin' to be okay."

And then he crosses the space between us, threads both his hands into my hair and kisses me. I respond automatically, parting my lips to taste him, to allow the cool of his tongue to tangle with mine. It's slow and deep, his possessive hands cupping the back of my head, tugging me closer to him. My hands find his waist, dipping inside the leather and finding the soft cotton beneath it. I curl my hands into the fabric, pulling it out, away from his jeans so I can trail my fingers over the smooth skin of his lower back.

It's cool and soft and incredibly sensitive under my touch.

I shiver at the deep groan Spike lets out against my lips when I drag my fingernails over his hips.

He pulls away from me to trail more hot, slow kisses over my jaw line, up to my ear.

"Slayer," he breathes, twisting his hands in my hair, turning my head to the side as he traces the delicate curve of my ear with his tongue. "Buffy."

It's the sound of my name on his lips that does it.

My eyes snap open and I suddenly remember where we are. What we're doing.

Why we shouldn't be doing it.

"No," I whimper helplessly, feeling his lips against the tender spot just below my ear. Then again, louder, putting my hands on his chest and shoving him away from me. "No!"

He stumbles back a little ways, looking at me with glazed eyes.

"What the hell are you doing?" I ask, hearing how hollow and breathy it sounds to my own ears.

"Nothing you haven't already done," Spike says, lunging for me, covering my lips with his again.

I melt against him again for a brief moment, just long enough to moan into his mouth.

But then I pull away again, whipping my head to the side to break his hold on me.

"Stop it," I say, stepping out of his reach. I keep my eyes down, away from him.

I can feel the tension rolling off Spike in waves, feel his eyes burning into my profile.

My hands are shaking.

"That's not what you were sayin' last night."

This brings my head back up, eyes snapping immediately to his. He's staring at me intently, leaning forward on the balls of his feet.

I blink at him, swallowing.

"What?" I ask, even though I know exactly what he's talking about.

Spike growls low in his throat and reaches out, wrapping long fingers around my arms and yanking me toward him.

"You think I don't know?" He asks, his forehead pressed against mine. "Up there in your pretty little bedroom, thinking of me. Dreaming of me." He inhales sharply, squeezing my arms just a little tighter. "I heard you, pet. Heard you crying out in the dark, moanin' my name."

So he had been there. What I'd felt when I'd woken up last night, the absolute sureness of knowing he was out there, below my bedroom window. That was real. I'd felt him.

And he'd heard me.

My eyes go wide.

Oh, God, what all had I said?

"It…it was just a dream," I stammer, my voice sounding very small. I'm mesmerized by the tiny flecks of yellow swirling in the indigo of his irises. This close, they look like little galaxies.

I can't look away. Can't shove him. Can't move.

"It doesn't mean anything."

His eyes flash, expression darkening as he pulls away from me. I feel the absence of his skin against mine more than I want to.

"Yeah?" Spike reaches up, expertly wrapping a lock of my hair around the palm of his hand and pulling it aside in one quick movement, bearing the left side of my neck to him. His eyes go directly, meaningfully, to the bruise his blunt bite had left.

I watch him, my breathing ragged, as he untangles his hand from my hair, and brings the tips of his index and middle fingers to rest directly over the two small punctures there.

He brings his gaze back to mine and whispers huskily, "Seems like it might mean a little somethin'."

He drops his hand away from my neck just as I put my hands on his chest again, shoving as hard as I can.

We separate, stumbling away in opposite directions. He crashes into the side of a mausoleum, and I fall back onto the edge of the headstone behind me. We stare at each other. His eyes as narrow as mine are wide. My chest is heaving, gasping for air that seems to keep getting caught in my throat, can't make it down to my lungs.

He'd known exactly where to look. It's all I can think, the only coherent though swirling around my jumbled brain.

He'd known where to look. Which side of my neck the mark was on. But he hadn't been looking for the bruise he'd left. He'd been looking for the holes, the little holes I'd dug there during my dream. They hadn't been there before, last night, when I'd seen him last, and my hair's been down, over my shoulders this whole time.

He couldn't have known.

But he had. The way he'd deliberately moved my hair to the side, the words that he'd said. I can still feel the chill from his fingertips against my throat.

He'd known.

 _But how?_


	15. Chapter 15

Spike's still stalking toward me, getting closer and closer and my head is still reeling. I can't think straight. I need more distance, time to get my bearings.

In a last minute decision, I put my hand out in front of me, watching as it collides with the wall of Spike's chest. My eyes turn to his face.

He stops short but doesn't move away from me. If anything, I swear I feel him lean into the palm of my hand. A long moment passes, my fingers itching to twist in the soft fabric of his t-shirt, the urge to pull him closer to me a little blinding in the haze being so near to him is creating.

It's only when he starts to lean in again, that I see his eyes fall from my own down to my lips, that I snap out of it. I shake my head, using my hand to push him backward.

"How did you know?" I ask, bringing my hand up once again to cup the curve of my throat where the twin wounds are. Spike frowns, his eyes unfocused as they dart between mine and the position of my hand. I watch the understanding slowly dawn on his face, and an odd expression shadows his eyes. They go a little wide and then he shakes his head, taking another step away from me.

"Know what?" He asks dumbly, voice coming out low and strained.

Playing dumb.

I narrow my eyes at him.

"You _know_ what," I hiss, uncapping my hand and moving my hair to the side so he can see exactly what I'm talking about. "How did you know they were there?"

Spike scoffs, leering at me. "Knew where I bit you, yeah?" He takes another step away from me, like he suddenly needs the distance. "Just happened the other bloody night."

Then he narrows his eyes at me, curling his tongue. "Or have you forgotten?"

He says it the same way, with that same venomous seduction I've heard so many times, the same vicious tongue curl that send shock waves down my spine. But there's something different about it this time. It's something in his eyes, even as narrowed as they are on me now. There's no real venom there. No true intention to rile me up, or make me feel uncomfortable.

It's more like he's posturing, reacting to my questions the way he thinks he should react.

I stare at him a moment, studying his face. The longer I look at him, the more the put upon expression seems to fall away until finally, it drops all together and his brow furrows.

"Why are you _lookin'_ at me like that?" He asks, blinking at me.

I answer his question with a question of my own.

"How did you know about the mark, Spike?"

He frowns at me. "I just told you—"

"Not that mark," I say quickly, cutting him off. "This one." I pull my hair further to the side, turning my neck toward Spike so he can't even pretend to misunderstand me.

When I turn my eyes back to him, his expression has turned smug again.

"What?" he asks, gesturing toward me dismissively. "Those little pin pricks? Just saw 'em is all." He tilts his head to the side, eyeing my through thick lashes. The corner of his lips quirk up. "Had my hands all over you not two sodding seconds ago."

I just look at him for a moment, thinking for about the millionth and one time how terrible a liar Spike is for someone of the soulless demon variety. Then again, maybe I just _know_ he's lying. The same way I'd known about patrolling, and known he'd been outside my bedroom last night.

I _feel_ it.

Maybe I've always felt it. Maybe it's some sort of weird Slayery thing and I've just never noticed.

I think back, trying to remember if I'd ever experienced feelings like this before, either with Spike or any other vampire. Angel maybe.

But I don't think so. I think this is new, and I think it's only Spike.

And whatever it is I'm feeling, I think he's feeling it, too. Even if he doesn't want to admit it.

Which, clearly, he doesn't.

It's not going to keep me from asking.

"How did you _know_ , Spike?" I ask again, voice level as I stare him down, folding my arms over my chest. I'm done with not knowing things. Feeling like everything in my life is so far out of my control. These feelings I'm having, whatever they are, whatever they _mean_ …I just need to know what's happening.

Spike regards me openly, brows drawn together. His eyes search mine, stormy and swirling with an emotion I can't read in the darkness. He opens his mouth like he's starting to say something, then closes it again. He repeats the action once more, frowning. I step a little closer to him, looking up into his face expectantly. For a moment I think he's actually going to respond to me, explain to me what's going on.

But then he snaps his mouth closed, turns on his heel and storms away from me.

I'm halfway expecting him to stop, the same way he had earlier, but he doesn't. I consider calling out to him for all of two seconds before I decide against it.

I let him go.

He wouldn't have explained anything to me, anyway.

I watch as the black leather of his duster fades into the night, continue to stare after the white-blonde beacon of Spike's hair until I can't see it anymore. I reach my fingers up, ghosting them delicately over the two punctures on the side of my neck.

He'd known. He'd known, and he'd lied to me about it.

And he'd kissed me tonight. He'd been the one to start all this, not me.

I wonder dimly if that could mean anything as I turn around and head back through the cemetery, back toward Revello.

Suddenly, I don't feel much like slaying.

I take the long way back to the house, cutting through Restfield and a couple other, smaller cemeteries as a cursory sweep as I go. Everything's pretty much dead.

 _No pun intended._

I'm still feeling a little spun, a little shaky, when I finally reach Revello Drive. I haven't figured out what's more unsettling—the fact that Spike had obviously known about the dream I'd had last night, one way or another, or the fact that he'd known and had felt the need to lie to me about how.

Both are pretty high on the wig scale, but more than anything the how's and why's are starting to pile up so high in my head that I can't see anything else.

I run through the various "how" possibilities in my head as I remove my jacket and hang it on the coat rack beside the front door. There are only a couple, but trying to keep them all straight in my head is spinning my head even more than Spike's kisses had, so I stop by the kitchen and grab a small pad of paper and a pen. I consider heading up to my bedroom, but end up deciding against it. I'm big with the not being tired, and I've always kind of felt funny about sleeping upstairs when no one else is in the house.

I bring my pen and paper with me into the living room, flipping on a lamp and dropping down onto the sofa. After spending a minute or so tapping my pen against the sheet of paper, I bite down on my bottom lip and start jotting down theories.

 _Talked in my sleep_

 _Spike actually did bite me_

 _Dreams_

 _Weird slayer/vampire thingy_

I stare at my list for a long while. Of all the options I've written down, I don't feel like any of them seem all that plausible. If I had talked in my sleep last night, and judging from what Spike told me tonight…which brings another fresh blush to my cheeks even now…I'm pretty sure I had, I doubt I would have said a whole lot. At least not about _where_ the bite was, and not while it was happening.

Because that definitely what I'd been thinking about at the time.

My cheeks heat up again at the memory of the bite in my dream, the way my whole body had reacted, and I quickly cross out that option.

As far as being actually bitten…I'm fairly certain my tinglies would have woken me up real quick if Spike had _actually_ been in my bedroom last night. Plus, I've totally been bitten before and the two holes on my neck and are way too small to be actual fang marks.

I cross that option off, too.

I'm not even sure why I wrote the third option down. Even now, as I'm reading it, it doesn't make sense. Maybe I just wanted to have more than three options.

I cross it off, and I'm left with the fourth and final option. Probably the most likely, and probably the one I'm the most uncomfortable with.

This thing, this _feeling_ thing. There's obviously something, some honest-to-God connection between the two of us that probably began when I first started having the dreams last month. I have no way of knowing for sure, not if Spike isn't going to cooperate, and frankly he has no reason to. I might be willing to drop it myself if the whole thing wasn't preventing me from doing my job, from being everything I need to be for Mom, and Dawn.

But I don't even know at this point if getting answers will make it better or worse. If knowing is better than not knowing.

Because if I know, then I have to deal with it.

And if I have to deal with it, it might mean coming clean to Giles, asking him for help.

I haven't been much with the coming clean lately. More with the staying dirty.

So maybe it's better if I just keep it to myself. Avoid Spike at all costs, suffer through the crazy vivid sex dreams in silence.

I grimace, remembering again what Spike said.

 _Err, semi-silence._

I stare at the paper for another minute, frowning down at it like it's said something offensive. Finally, I sigh, tossing the paper and the pen onto the coffee table in front of me and leaning my head back onto the edge of the sofa.

I've just closed my eyes, deciding that I've had enough trying to figure all this out for tonight, when I feel it. The shrill tingle, the shiver down my spine.

 _Vampire._

My eyes shoot open again, and the tingle gets sharper, more insistent. I sit up, whipping my head around to peer out the large window behind me.

There's nothing there. Nothing but the porch, and the empty street after that.

I frown, turning back around to push myself to my feet. The tingle is still there, still sharp. I wander through the living room and into the foyer, stopping to look out the windows at the top of the wooden door.

Still nothing.

Brow furrowed, I wander through the foyer and into the dining room. Nothing. Through the dining room and into the darkened kitchen. The tingle's getting stronger as I go, until finally I come to a stop right in front of the door the leads out to the backyard.

He's there, I know he is. The chill running down my spine isn't just any vampire, it's Spike.

But I would have known even if the tinglies hadn't told me.

I step up closer to the door, peaking out the glass in the window. Sure enough, the bleached blonde is standing there on the back porch. Head down, murmuring something I can't quite hear, pacing back and forth in the small space. I can't quite see his expression from this angle, but his body language is majorly agitated.

I wrench the door open before I can think twice, drawn forward by a sudden intense curiosity to find out what he's doing here.

Especially after the way he'd stormed away from me in the cemetery.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, my voice coming out too loud in the quiet night. Spike doesn't seem to even notice my presence, or if he does, he doesn't react. Not right away.

He keeps pacing, shifting his eyes over to me once before turning them back to the wooden deck below his feet.

After a few minutes go by, I fold my arms over my chest and prompt him. "Spike?"

He stops pacing suddenly, whirling around to face me and jabbing a finger toward my chest. "This is all your bloody fault, you know."

I raise both my eyebrows, blinking at him.

"What is?" I ask, genuinely wanting to know.

There are a few things he could be talking about, and he might be right about some of them.

Spike glares at me, putting both hands on his hips.

"This," he says pointedly, "You. Me. Whatever the bloody hell is goin' on here."

Oh.

That.

"You mean what happened the other night?" I ask, my cheeks heating. It's the most direct I've been in talking about what happened between us in the alley behind The Bronze, and I have to look away from him.

I'm not sure what I expect his reaction to be. Whether I think he's going to mock me, or say something piggish, or maybe even something seductive. I have no idea how this conversation will go, how it will end.

I don't know why he even came here.

So I'm not expecting the reaction I get now.

"No," He growls, narrowing his eyes. "Not what happened the other night, you stupid bint."

I frown. "Then what—"

Spike moves so quickly I can't anticipate it, grabbing me around the arms and hauling me toward him, pressing his lips to mine with a sort of violent urgency that takes my breath away.

He pulls away from me as quickly as he'd grabbed me, voice very low as wild, dark eyes search mine.

"I mean you're fucking _everywhere_. Everywhere I go, every time I close my eyes." He shakes me. "You. All I see is _you_ , Summers."

And then he lets go of me abruptly, shoving me backward and turning his back to walk a few steps away. He takes a deep breath in, exhales slowly. Then, softly, "What have you _done_ to me?"

I frown at his back, reaching a little dazedly behind me to close the kitchen door and stepping out onto the back porch. There's a breeze out here, and it's chilly enough that it brings goose bumps to my skin.

At least I tell myself that's what it is.

I wait a minute before speaking, not sure what it is that I should even say. My brain is working overtime, running a thousand miles a minute as I run through what it is he's just said to me.

 _You're everywhere. All I see is you._

 _What have you done to me?_

It's the last part that sticks in my head, bouncing around hollowly. He hadn't said it accusingly, or even angrily. It had been more resigned.

Defeated.

It makes me feel funny.

I step a little closer to him, eyes fixed on his back, running my hands up and down my chilled arms.

"What do you mean, what have I done?" I ask, a little hesitantly. "I haven't _done_ anything."

Except that isn't true. I've done a lot.

Spike knows it too, because he snorts indignantly and turns his head over his shoulder.

But the scathing comment, the burning indictment of my actions that I probably deserve but will deny anyway doesn't come.

"Maybe not," he concedes instead, and I can't help the look of surprise that passes over my features. "But somethin' _is_ happenin' to me."

 _Me, too_ , I think automatically, taking another step forward. It isn't what I say, though.

"Like what?" I ask instead, pretty lamely even to my own ears.

I think I already know what he's going to say.

I watch as the vampire turns around, sighing as he angles his body toward mine. He shakes his head, sighing. His eyes are focused somewhere behind me, slightly over my shoulder as he begins to speak.

"You remember a couple'a weeks ago. Ran into each other, you asked me if I'd been feelin' _off_."

I think back to when he's referring to. I do remember. It was that night, the night of the trance, when I'd run into him fighting those two demons.

I can't remember if he'd told me anything. I don't think so. Actually, I think he'd given me the same no-answer answer he'd given me earlier tonight when I'd asked him about patrolling.

I'd asked if he felt off. He'd asked me why I was asking.

"Yeah," I say, another little shiver raising more bumps along my arms.

"Yeah," Spike murmurs, repeating it the way I've just said it. His eyes are still unfocused. "Well, I had been."

There's a lump in the back of my throat suddenly that hadn't been there a moment ago as I continue to stare at him.

"In…what way?" I ask, and my voice comes out scratchy, a little on the squeaky side.

I clear my throat and hope Spike hasn't noticed.

If he had, he doesn't mention it. Instead, he laughs. A short bark, like it isn't really funny. His eyes drift from the spot over my shoulder and back to my face, burning into mine with a fierceness I've only ever seen from him.

"In every way."

I don't know if it's what he says, or the deep, husky way he says it that has my heart skipping an erratic rhythm in my chest now.

I don't know what to say. Don't have anything _to_ say.

I wonder if his every way are the same every ways I've been feeling off lately. By the expression on his face, the hungry look in his eyes, I'd be willing to venture a large yes.

Spike looks away from me quickly, shaking his head again. "Started out havin' these…" he trails off, like he's searching for the right word, "well, nightmares, I guess you'd call 'em."

My stomach does one of those churny, twisty things.

"Nightmares?" I ask quietly, shivering again when he turns his gaze back to my face. "About what?"

And I don't know why I ask. Don't know why I even bother.

Because I already know. The same way I've known everything else, I know his nightmares have to be the same as my dreams. Not just because it suddenly makes a whole heck of a lot of sense, but because in this moment it's inexplicably the only logical answer.

And if I didn't know, if I wasn't this certain, the look on his face now would tell me for sure. Both eyebrows raised sardonically, full lips set in a half smirk that isn't really amused or disdainful, but kind of both.

 _Nightmares._ He'd called them nightmares.

My stomach twists again, but I don't spend too long thinking about why. Don't even have time to, because Spike's already talking again.

"And then I ran into you, out in the cemetery that night, with those two great big slimy things?" The words leave his lips in a rush, like he doesn't really want to say them back can't stop himself. "And you were actin' so bloody twitchy, so… _different_ around me and it got me to thinkin' whether or not you might be…" He trails off again, and I watch the tens muscle in his jaw ticking, his eyes rolling up toward the night sky. "Bloody hell, I'm so turned around I can't fucking _see_ straight."

I stand there for a moment, filing away everything he's just told me. I'm not sure what to do with it all. I'm not sure it even made much sense.

So I stand there staring at him, his eyes still toward the sky, mine riveted on the sharp, shadowed lines of his cheeks.

"So," I begin cautiously, unsure of what type of reaction I'll get from him now, "you've been…feeling off because of these nightmares."

Spike scoffs, shaking his head, bringing his eyes back down to mine.

" 'S not about the bleeding _nightmares_ , Slayer," he says, almost like he's scolding me. "S' about what they've made me…think, feel." His voice drops low as he takes a step toward me. "Things they've made me _do_."

I know without asking what things he's probably referring to. More than likely the same things I've done, things I've blamed on the dreams over the past month.

And even though I don't have to ask, I do anyway.

"Like?" I ask, eyes fixated on his face as he approaches me.

Spike smirks at me. A true smirk, one that sends a tiny flutter of butterfly wings through my stomach.

"Think you know the answer to that," he murmurs, stepping closer to me again.

"You asked me earlier," I say quickly, backing up a little ways toward the kitchen door. I'm so close to getting answers from him, so close to giving him some of my own, that I don't want to get distracted again. I just want it done. Out. Handled. "Why I wanted to know about patrolling?"

Spike stops walking long enough to tilt his head, narrowing his eyes slightly.

"I did," he says, frowning.

"That night in the cemetery, the night I got…stabbed," I clarify, watching as understanding dawns on his features. He nods in acknowledgment. "How did you know I was there?"

Spike stands there and stares at me for a long time, brows knit together. Like he's weighing his options, deciding whether or not he wants to answer my questions when I still haven't answered his. Or maybe he's realizing what I think I just have.

That the answers to both our questions might be the same.

Finally, he rights his head so he's looking at me dead on and shrugs.

"Just knew."

I nod, raising my eyebrows meaningfully.

"Right then," he says, putting his hands in the pockets of his duster.

"When did it start for you?" I ask, looking down at my feet, not bothering to clarify which part I'm talking about now.

Neither of us has said it, actually said it, but there's some kind of quiet understanding between us as we stand out here now, separated by only a couple feet.

"Dunno," he answers quickly, not a moment's hesitation. "Sometime after that first night in my crypt, but not sure exactly when."

Weeks ago. Three weeks ago, almost. I think back, trying to remember the first time I'd had that feeling. There'd been traces of it, very faint, tiny traces, that night Spike had mentioned before, fighting those two green demons. There's no doubt that it's gotten stronger.

Last night had been the strongest by far.

I wonder how much, if any, of that had to do with the dream itself, or if the connection…or whatever it is…is just strengthening with time.

I frown, looking up into his face. "So all those times you demanded answers from me—"

"Think I just needed to hear you say it. Couldn'a known for sure, yeah? Thought I might've been bloody losin' it." He laughs then, shaking his head and looking down at the ground. "Bloody hell, still think I might be."

I wonder if us kissing had anything to do with it. If being physical like that with each other could have sparked something, or if the dreams were the instigators from the beginning. And if that's the case, wouldn't it make sense for it to all have been a spell?

What purpose could there possibly be connecting a Slayer to the Slayer of Slayers?

It doesn't make sense, but it isn't something that even I can deny at this point.

And now that it's out, now that we've more or less acknowledged it, will it get better or worse? Be more awkward, more difficult to deal with, or easier?

And, oh God, what if it _is_ the physical stuff?

If it's the _very_ physical manifestations of the dreams or the connection or the dream connection or whatever the hell this is that's been strengthening things between Spike and I, how the hell am I supposed to explain _that_ to Giles?

To anyone?

My chest tightens and I feel a blush staining my cheeks all over again at the thought, and I'm wishing now that I hadn't pressed it. That I'd let Spike go, let him pace out on the back porch all night and just gone to bed.

Curiosity killed the cat.

Ignorance is bliss.

There's a reason that people have sayings like that.

"Last night," I begin, choosing my words very carefully, "did you…hear me? Or was it sort of a…just knowing thing again."

Spike raises an eyebrow. "The bite?"

He asks it so casually. Like we haven't just discovered the link between us, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

Maybe he actually feels better now that he knows he isn't the only insano one.

I wish I could say the same.

"Uh," I murmur, wrapping my hand self-consciously around the mark on my neck. "Yeah."

The vampire shrugs, lips quirking up slightly. "Maybe a little of both."

Not exactly the answer I'd been hoping for, but better than I guess it could have been.

We stand across from each other on the porch for a little while longer, neither of us talking. I think maybe we're both a little numb, probably more than a little with the information overload. I know I personally can't think of anything worth while to say, my thoughts continually drifting back to what's happening with us, what caused it and why.

Alternatively interrupted by thoughts of _how the hell am I going to explain this_ and _can I find a way to do so without telling Giles everything_.

"So," Spike says slowly, drawing the word out and jarring me in the process, "what do you think it means?"

I look at him, shaking my head. "You're asking the wrong person."

He nods appreciatively, like he knew that would be my answer.

 _Which_ , I think, _maybe he did._

This whole thing is way too weird.

"Will you tell the Watcher then?" He asks, studying my face.

I take a deep breath, exhaling it all through my nose. "Probably." Then I wrinkle my nose up. "I'll leave some parts out."

"Right," Spike says, his tone suddenly turning harsh, mocking, "wouldn't want to damage your spotless reputation."

I stare at him, blinking, a little caught off guard.

There are a lot of things that Spike seems to excel at, and turning his emotions and personality on a dime seems to be one of them.

"What are you talking about?" I ask.

"Ya know, s' not like it'd be the first time you had to tell your lot you screwed a vamp. Probably wouldn't even be that surprised."

I know what he's doing, can see through his words now that I know what to look for. It's the same thing that happened the other morning when he'd left, after I'd asked him not to tell anyone about Mom and he'd taken it to mean the other thing. His attitude had flipped in a split second.

The problem is, I can't tell if it's because he's frustrated that I want to keep it a secret or if it's because he genuinely feels like I'm protecting myself.

The other problem? I don't really know my motivations, either.

I look at him, narrowing my eyes. "This isn't about me."

But I'm not so sure it isn't.

Spike just laughs again, lips curled in a wicked smirk. "Whatever you say, pet."

I feel my face heat, but this time it's with anger and not embarrassment. Even if he's right, even if he knows my reasons better than even I do…which at this point he might, I don't know how this thing works or even what it is. Still, I hate it when people tell me how I think, or how I feel.

 _Especially when I don't know, myself._

"Look," I say, stepping into his personal space, dropping my hands down to my sides. "It's not like you'd want me going around telling all your little demon pals that you slept with the Slayer."

Spike leans in a little closer to me, doing that thing where he sweeps his lashes up from my waist to my chest, pausing at the mark on my neck, before landing on my eyes again.

I hate the way I feel it everywhere.

"Probably think I was doin' them a favor, luv," he murmurs, eyes stormy and wild as they burn into mine. "Gettin' you to _loosen_ up a bit."

I raise my hand on instinct, going for his face the same way I had last night outside the Magic Box. Spike anticipates it. Whether he sees it coming or just knows, I'm not sure. But he reaches out, stopping my hand just inches from his right cheek, long, cool fingers wrapped tightly around my wrist.

"You're disgusting," I say, but the insult falls flat. There's nothing in it.

"Now, now," he scolds, still holding my hand firmly in place beside his cheek, "none of that."

I attempt to wrench my hand free from him, but he's got too firm a hold on it.

"Let me go," I hiss, making my voice as firm as I can, fighting hard not to let myself be distracted by his scent. Again.

Spike grins wickedly. "Make me."

I struggle against him, using my other hand as leverage to push myself away but Spike has his other hand around my left wrist in the same iron-clad hold he has my right one in before I can do any real damage.

Not that I'd been really trying to.

And now I'm left standing here, chest to heaving chest with him, both of my hands secured firmly in his, with no where to go and no one inside the house that could look out see us.

And I'm staring up at Spike and he's staring back at me and it's obvious, so painfully _obvious_ , that we're thinking the same thing and all that's left is for one of us to make the decision again.

He does, keeping both my wrists in his hands he pushes me backward the couple feet it take to get to the door, slamming my back into it so hard that it rattles in the frame, and he kisses me. It isn't slow and soft this time, but hard and frenzied and just the right mix of pleasure from the length of his body pressed against mine and pain from the biting hold on my wrists. He pushes my hands hard into the door, pinning them together above my head with his left hand so he can trail the right down my arm, down to the small of my back. I could break his hold so easily now if I wanted to.

I don't.

It's amazing, the way everything, _everything_ , fades away with the taste of his lips, the way his tongue curls against mine.

I moan into his mouth when he digs his fingers into my back, pushing up my shirt to expose the tender skin there and pulling my hips more tightly against him.

"Invite me in," he whispers huskily, trailing the same heady, open mouthed kisses from before in the cemetery over my jaw, down toward the sensitive spot below my ear.

"You've already been invited in," I whisper back, forgetting for a the time being that I'd meant to keep that part a secret. I let out a desperate little whimper when Spike finds the lobe of my ear with his teeth and gives it a quick, gentle tug.

"Fine then," he murmurs, trailing kisses back down my jaw, claiming my lips in on more urgent, searing kiss. He pulls away from me, just enough so I can see his eyes, and says "Invite me up."

The words make my legs go a little jell-o-y.

He asks because he wants me to say it. Because he knows I know what it means.

It's a bad idea. It's such a bad idea, in so many ways, on so many different levels of bad. So much more personal, more intimate. More real. No pretending it never happened, no room for denial when tangible memories will be staring me in the face every day. And in the back of my mind I'm thinking about the dream.

About everything that happened in my dream.

But the logical side of my brain, the side that seems to turn tale and run any time Spike and his sinful lips get anywhere near me, isn't saying anything. The only things going through my head are single syllables, like last year when I got way too into beer and went 10,000 years B.C. Words like _good, more, want, now._ Repeated on a loop, over and over again.

And then there's the admission he'd made. Whether he realized it or not. Whether he knows what it means, or cares, or blames me because of it.

 _All I see is you, Summers._

I finally break the hold he has on my wrists, sliding my arms down the door and back down to my sides. Spike's other hand is still splayed over my bare skin, and I reach back with slightly shaking fingers to pull it away from me.

He starts to frown, eyes flashing for a brief moment. I only see the expression for a moment though before I turn my back on him, pushing open the kitchen door and stepping inside.

"Well," I ask after a minute, turning to glance at him over my shoulder. My head is still hazy, lips swollen from his kisses. "Are you coming?"

Spike smirks at me, but hesitates just a moment longer outside on the porch before stepping over the threshold and into the kitchen, eyes never leaving mine as he pushes the kitchen door closed behind him.


	16. Chapter 16

I stand in the kitchen, a few feet away from Spike. I half expect him to come flying at me, half anticipate his lips to be covering mine by now.

But nothing happens.

We're literally just standing here, staring at each other, neither of us sure of what to do next.

"Been awhile since I've been in here," Spike murmurs, looking away from me, glancing toward the kitchen cabinets.

I follow his gaze over toward one in particular, the one I know Mom keeps all of her hot cocoa mix. It seems like more than just a couple years ago that I found him sitting in here, spilling his heart out over Drusilla.

"Yeah," I murmur softly, "even longer since the last time I personally invited you in."

And that had been over Drusilla, too. The thought gives me an uncomfortable little pang in my stomach.

I try to ignore it.

"Right you are," he murmurs back, looking over at me. His lips quirk up, and he takes a step closer to me. "And under very different circumstances."

That familiar heat spreads through my cheeks again, my skin growing tight.

I nod.

"So, Slayer," he drawls, stepping toward me again. "You, uh...gonna show me this pretty little pink bedroom of yours?"

"It isn't pink," I say, trying and failing to disguise the faint tremor in my voice.

This had seemed like such a good idea a second ago. I guess it's the distance, standing even just this far away from him has me thinking just the tiniest bit clearer. We still don't know what's going on here. Don't know what's causing it. Don't know if us being...physical with each other is going to make it worse, make it better.

We don't know anything.

This is a mistake. A mega sized mistake.

And Spike's taking another step toward me, putting his hand on the island counter top, trailing his fingers along it as he approaches me.

"Funny," he purrs, tilting his head to the side, "'s how I always pictured it. Pretty pink walls, pretty pink bedspread," his nostrils flare, dropping his eyes pointedly down toward my hips. "Pretty pink-"

"It's more of a, a green color," I say quickly, stepping backward further into the kitchen. "Mint green." He steps directly into my space, inhaling, looking down at me hotly. "W-with stripes."

Why does every rational thought in my head fizzle out and go poof when he's this close to me?

"Mmm," he purrs, raising an eyebrow. "Sounds nice."

The way he's looking at me, his eyes dropping down to my lips. For a moment, I think he's about to kiss me again.

But then he quickly, expertly skirts around me, moving down the narrow hallway and through the dining room without another word. I can just see the edge of his duster swirling around his legs as he rounds the corner, moving in the direction of the staircase.

I bolt after him, rounding the corner myself just in time to watch him taking the stairs two at a time.

"Spike," I shout up after him, coming to stand at the bottom of the stairs. "Get back down here!"

"Little late for demands, pet," he calls back down to me, and I can tell by the sound of his voice that he's already a good ways down the hall.

And this is stupid. So, so stupid. I'm the Slayer. _The_ Slayer. If I don't want Spike in my room, all I have to do is go upstairs and drag him back out.

And I'm sure it'll be that simple.

 _Because everything with Spike has been that simple lately._

I speed up the stairs after him, taking them two at a time the same way he had. By the time I reach the landing, I can see that the door to my bedroom is wide open. I rush down the hall and into the room, narrowly avoiding running directly into Spike's leather clad back.

He's come to a complete stop only about a foot into the room, his head turned toward my vanity, the mirror that's covered in photographs. Photos of me, Mom, Dawn. Photos of Xander and Willow, even Giles. The photo from over the summer, the one I'd practically forced him into taking with me. I think it might have been at Dawn's birthday.

But the photo Spike's staring at now is one of me, Willow and Xander from my first year in Sunnydale.

"You forget, yeah?" he says softly, all traces of the husky taunting from a moment ago gone from his voice. "Slayers. You lot are just girls." He turns around to look at me, that same strange look in his eyes. "You're so bloody young."

It's my turn to raise an eyebrow at him.

He looks away from me quickly, as though catching himself doing something he isn't supposed to be doing.

If he asked me, I'd say we've sort of already crossed that line. Him being in my bedroom and all, and not in a million dusty pieces.

"Smells like you," he's says now, walking a little further into my bedroom.

It's so weird to see him in here. A shadow of black, standing out in such stark contrast against the creamy pastels of my bedroom.

I wrinkle my nose up. I've always been wigged by the whole vamps have noses like blood hounds thing. "Is that a good thing?"

He shrugs. "Dunno." Then he chuckles lowly. "If you'd asked me that a few weeks ago pretty sure I'da said no."

I step further into the room, too, staring at the back of his head. "And now?"

He turns around to face me.

"It's...sweet," he says, tilting his head to the side, watching me closely. "Like...vanilla." His eyes are glued to mine. "And strawberries."

So, not exactly disgusting smells...but not exactly what I'd been expecting him to say, either.

I frown at him, raising one eyebrow. "I smell like food?"

Spike chuckles again, shaking his head. In the moonlight filtering in through my windows, I can see the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.

"No Slayer," he murmurs, stepping toward me, "you smell like _dessert_."

 _Oh._

My mouth goes dry.

"Used to drive me bloody crazy," he says, crossing the room to stand in front of me again. I'm still standing in the doorway, watching him. "Your scent. All soft and light, and all that...power." He drops his right hand against the wall beside my head when he says the last word, boxing me in on one side.

I duck under his arm quickly, just barely missing his lips colliding with mine. I spin around to face him. He's looking at me over his shoulder, all smoky, seductive eyes and pursed lips.

Because he knows.

He knows that any resistance I'm showing him, any feigned illusion that I haven't thought about this, hadn't considered the possibilities when I opened that kitchen door and let him follow me in here in the first place. We'd admitted to feeling this, both of us. Admitted to the dreams, the connection that's so clearly there now.

By admitting it to him, I've left no room for denial. No recourse to push him away again, not like I had in that alley.

I'd made that decision the second I'd opened the door, and he'd made his the moment he'd stepped through it. The second he shut that door, things changed.

Irreversibly.

We both know it. Both feel it.

And somehow I think we're both helpless to stop it. This...it's bigger than either of us.

So when he turns toward me now, crosses the small space between us and grabs me by the shoulders, I don't fight him. Don't even pretend to.

He leans toward me, watching me carefully. Looking for something, maybe some sign that I'm about to shove him away. We watch each other and his hands slowly slide over my arms. One comes up, sliding around, grazing the mark on the curve of my throat before he wraps his fingers around the back of my neck.

He leans in, but I stop him one more time, one small, last effort. Not a real one, and we both know it.

Still.

"Wait," I whimper, the word barely coming out. If Spike didn't have way sensitive vamp hearing there's no way he would have caught it.

But he does, stopping short of giving me what I'm certain will be another mind altering, bone melting kiss.

I think it might be the only kind he knows how to give.

"What are we doing?" I ask breathlessly, my lips just barely grazing his.

The hand cupping the back of my neck tightens its grip, holding me in place.

"Giving in," he whispers, his other hand splayed against my back.

He makes it sound so easy, so good. Like it's _right_.

Or if it's not quite right, then close to it.

 _Giving in._

I feel the tension leak out of my shoulders as I take the final step.

I nod against him urgently, and he growls a little in the back of his throat as he captures my lips again with his. I put my hands on his shoulders, sliding my fingers around to shove the duster impatiently off him. It falls to the ground with a soft thud, and I gasp into his mouth when his cool fingers find my bare back, bunching my shirt up and out of the way.

Not wanting to be outdone, needing to feel more of him, more of the cool, smooth skin I'd felt earlier, I scramble to pull his shirt out of his jeans, yank it upward. We break our kiss just briefly, for only the time it takes for me to get the black cotton over his head, and then our lips find each other's again.

I thread one of my hands into his already tousled curls, twisting my fingers into them, jerking his head to the side so I can kiss him harder. More deeply.

He growls again, and the sound sends a sudden jolt straight to my center. And the ache is there, so strong, so sudden, burning across my nerve endings and sending the desire I have for him, the one I'd all but denied just moments ago, skyrocketing.

His grip on me tightens again and he steps away from the dark puddle of the duster and the t-shirt on the ground, moving our entwined bodies backwards, closer to the mattress.

And then Spike suddenly spins around and hauls me toward him, dropping down into a sitting position on the edge of my bed and pulling me down on top of him.

I land on top of his lap, knees straddling his hips, catching myself on his shoulders for balance. I've barely had time register where we are, the change in position, how intimate we're pleaced together before his hands are moving again. Strong, sure fingers twisting in the fabric of my shirt, yanking it up and over my head before I can say or do anything.

But it's lost on me in this moment. The fact that I'm inside my bedroom, straddling my mortal enemy, every inch of my upper body bared to his hungry gaze.

He leans back slightly, so he can see me better. Normally my first reaction would be to cover myself, but I'm frozen.

Or maybe I just don't want to.

I can't tell the difference anymore.

Spike starts the slow slide of his hands up my bare skin, starting at my stomach. His eyes following their movement.

I watch him watching me, see his fingertips linger for just a moment at the all but healed stake wound in my side, pausing to trace a cool circle around it before continuing upward.

He stops his ascent when his fingertips brush the sensitive underside of my breasts, sliding his hands around my ribcage and back, unclasping my bra with a lighting quick flick of his wrist, stripping it from my arms and tossing it aside.

And then I'm completely bare from the waist up, and for some wiggy, completely inexplicable reason, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

His eyes darken visibly as I look at him, slowly raking his gaze down to my belly button and back up again.

I shiver.

"Christ," he murmurs huskily, hands sliding further up my back, coming to rest against my shoulder blades. "But you are bloody magnificent."

Unconsciously, I shift closer to him. Pressing myself down into him, feeling him beneath me. I watch his jaw clench, his lashes flutter.

"You aren't so bad yourself," I murmur back, voice equally low, ghosting my hands down across the muscles of his chest. His skin is as smooth as I imagined it would be, as soft, as marble like as it had been in the quick flashes of my dream.

But it's the same as the kisses had been, the first real kisses back in his crypt all those weeks ago. The same, but better.

So much better.

He leans forward and up, nipping at my bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth before he grabs me, pressing my bare chest against his and spinning us effortlessly around again.

I land with a gentle bounce on the spring mattress. My head just missing the pillow, body diagonally across the bed.

And Spike's covering me again in an instant, kissing me even deeper still. His hands finding the button on my jeans easily, popping it open and pulling the zipper down in one fluid movement.

It happens so fast, and then he pulls away from me, hooking his hands into the waistband of my jeans and pulling them down over my hips with a sharp tug.

I don't wait for him to pull them all the way off my legs.

I reach for him, looping my own hands into his jeans, tugging him back toward me. I keep one hand hooked against his belt buckle, wind the other around the back of his neck and guide his lips back to mine.

His kisses. His scent, his flavor. I can't get enough of it.

I tug on his lower lip, yanking at the belt buckle again. Spike chuckles against my mouth, propping himself up beside me with one hand, using the other to divest himself of his jeans. I help him push them down over his hips, and he finishes kicking them off at the same time I finish kicking off mine.

None of it's quite as graceful as I'd like it to be.

 _The whole clothing removal thing went a lot more smoothly in my dream_ , I manage to think, just briefly, before he's covering my body with his again.

And then it doesn't matter.

With the full length of his body pressing me firmly down into the soft mattress beneath me, his tongue tangling with mine, the rumbling sounds of his soft growls and my whimpering mewls echoing around us in my bedroom. The scent of leather and smoke and vanilla, again like my dream, and again, so much more.

The ache between my thighs is almost unbearable. This feeling, the wild, animalistic pull toward him is so strong, growing stronger by the second.

Impatient, my hands find the small of his back, and I dig my nails into his bare skin and pull, arching my back up at the same time. The dual movements shift him forward, plunging him fully inside of me all the way to the hilt.

I gasp loudly. Spike groans against my lips, dropping down to his elbows on either side of my head.

This feeling is different, too. Deeper than before, touching every single inch of me. I can feel my muscles tightening around him even now, stretching deliciously to fit.

Neither of us moves for a long moment, not really even kissing. We just lay there completely connected, our lips pressed together, breathing shallow.

When I finally arch my hips up into him, taking him in as far as I can, he responds instantly. He breaks our kiss and pulls his hips back, pushing slowly forward again. Velvet covered steel, sliding luxuriously through my heat, the wetness there.

The pace is slow at first as I stare up at him, moving my hips in time with his. We don't speak, barely make any noise at all as we move languorously against each other.

It's doesn't stay that way long.

It's only a matter of moments before my blood starts to heat up, that now familiar boiling. Tingling as it rushes through my veins, pounding wildly in my ears. Driving me onward, forward, faster.

"Yes," I whisper as his pace begins to quicken.

I drag my nails up Spike's back, hard enough to make him cry out, tilting his head back. I'm probably marring the alabaster skin there, but I don't care. Can't care.

That strong, primal feeling is starting to take over. The darkness, the drive from the Slayer inside of me. To own him, to possess him completely.

"Spike, yes."

The sound of his name on my lips makes his eyes flash hungrily, swirling his hips with a practiced effortlessness as he pulls away from me again, thrusting back inside with enough force to make my breathing rapid, desperate little sounds escaping my lips in time with the quickening movement of our hips.

When it happens, I don't know what makes me do it.

I'm not thinking straight, can't see past this wild, white hot desire that's making my skin burn, making me ache. My inner muscles tighten around him, clenching, delirious waves of pleasure coursing through every inch of me. And I lean up and sink my teeth deep into the skin of his shoulder.

No hard enough to draw blood. Just hard enough to leave a mark.

My mark.

Spike let's out a wild roar, and when I pull back and his eyes meet mine again, they're glowing gold.

I can see the ridges of his forehead, the gleaming fangs.

I've brought out his demon.

A nagging, distant thought in the back of my head is whispering that maybe I'd wanted to.

I can feel the moment coming. The one from my dream, the pleading, begging words on the tip of my tongue. Echoes from the night before are in my head, swallowing everything else.

 _Spike, please._

I'm so close to saying it, can practically feel the words forming in the back of my throat.

But I don't. I don't even get a chance to.

Because Spike's already leaning forward, the sharp points of his fangs slicing through the tender flesh of my throat, directly over the pin pricks I'd made myself the night before.

The pain is the first thing I notice. The immediate, blinding pain.

My eyes snap open wide, and I cry out, throwing my head back. My nails score so deeply into his back that I'm sure I'll make him bleed.

And then he starts to drink, and my entire body explodes beneath his. The pain fades away, the thrumming of my blood, my heart beat pounding at the plse point of my throat in time with the slow, steady pull Spike's taking of my blood.

And then all there is is pleasure. Oh, _God_ , such incredible pleasure, and my muscles tense and convulse repeatedly, my hips still rocking against his, and just when I think it's about to stop it feels like it starts all over again.

And then it's suddenly over, and Spike's running the cool, pointed tip of his tongue back and forth over the two new puncture wounds.

When he pulls back to look at me again, his eyes are back to the dark, hazy almost black they'd been before.

We stare at each other, both blinking, both still a little dazed. I'm not sure either of us can put a finger on the moment that's just passed between us. The muscles in my legs are shaking, my nails still firmly embedded in his shoulders.

And we're still connected. Hips perfectly flush against mine, his already unnecessary breathing more erratic than usual. And I can still feel my heart pounding, fluttering in my chest.

There's this look on his face, like he's expecting me to hit him, maybe put my hands on his chest and push him away from me.

Bu I don't.

I don't want to.

Neither of us knows or understands what's happening here, what's going on between us, but we've admitted it to each other. The decision has truly been made. I'd though there was no going back after that night behind The Bronze. And maybe there wasn't. Maybe that really was the point of no return.

But if there hadn't been any coming back from that, there's pretty much zero chance of going back now.

 _Giving in._

That's what he'd said we were doing. That's exactly what we'd just done.

I'd let him bite me. I hadn't begged him for it, not like I had in the dream, but I hadn't stopped him either. And it hadn't been for any good reason. No Slayer reason, no vampire thing.

It wasn't to save his life, not like it had been with Angel.

It hadn't been his intention to kill me, even though he could have. So easily.

 _Especially_ , I think dazedly, _with the whole chip not frying his brain when he'd bitten me_.

But it hadn't been about pain. Even though it had hurt at first, the intention wasn't pain.

It was completely about pleasure. Both his, and mine.

So maybe that's the reason.

I'm sure if my body wasn't so spent, if my brain wasn't so muddled, I'd be more wigged than I'm feeling right now.

Or maybe not.

I don't know anymore.

All I do know is right now, pushing him away isn't what I want to do.

So I lift my head off the mattress and press my lips against his, instead. Because it's what I want to do.

Whether or not I know why it's what I want to do feels like it's beside the point. That's a question I'll deal with tomorrow.

Not tonight.

 _Not tonight_ , I think again as Spike slowly starts to deepen the kiss, pressing me down harder into the mattress. Even as my legs are still shaking, my inner muscles clench again, pulsing around him, drawing him deeper inside of me.

He moans into my mouth and I'm suddenly lost all over again.

So no, there will be no dealing of any kind tonight.

Tonight, I'm busy giving in.


	17. Chapter 17

It's the rumbling sound that wakes me up. The low humming just below my ear, sending tiny vibrations through my cheek. I make a tiny whining sound, not even close to ready to wake up. I can feel it even now, lying here with my eyes squeezed shut, that every muscle in my body aching, sore.

Luxuriously sore.

I keep my eyes closed, stretching my arms out in front of me and inhaling deeply.

I don't need to open my eyes to know that it's Spike beneath my cheek, that the vibrating rumbles are emanating from him, the smooth expanse of his chest scented sweetly of tobacco and just the insiest hint of soap below that.

I blink my eyes open slowly, shifting my gaze sideways and up without really moving my head. Spike's head is thrown back, tilted a little so that I can't see his eyes from where I'm pressed against his chest, only the sharp under curve of his jawline silhouetted against the moonlight filtering in through the window.

The room is still very dark.

I turn my head back down, thinking for a moment about whether or not I want to just let myself fall back asleep.

But I'm kind of wide awake now.

I'd halfway thought I'd feel more groggy. Maybe a little hazy, my head fogged out and distant, the way things had seemed all night last night. Unfocused, dazed.

But it isn't like that.

My head is very clear, the memories even clearer and sharp as knives.

More sleep isn't an option.

I put my hand down on the far side of Spike's chest, beside my head, shifting myself up very slowly into a sitting position, slipping over to the side so I can press my back down into the pillows I'd somehow completely missed falling asleep on.

I glance over at Spike, taking in his still form. He's laying in the bed beside me, one arm behind his head and the other now thrown casually across his bare chest. He must have adjusted it at the same time I'd been sitting up. I hadn't even noticed move.

His hand is splayed open across the place my cheek had just been.

And he's sleeping. Sleeping and Spike, they don't seem to go together. When I think of Spike, I always picture him the way I'm used to seeing him. The most expressive features, dark brows either drawn together or sky high on his forehead, lips curved in a wicked smile, and fidgeting. Spike is always moving, always _doing_ something.

I stare at him for a moment, both of us unmoving. His chest is deathly still, literally. The familiar, unessential, rise and fall now missing. His lashes are thick, long and very dark against his pale cheeks.

And he looks so boyish. Without the curled lips and the snark, the clenched jaw. There isn't a single trace of anything other than this sort of peaceful, dreamlike expression anywhere on his face.

It's almost innocent, though using the word innocent to describe Spike, even in the loosest form, feels wrong. I tilt my head, still watching him, my fingers itching with a sudden urge to reach out and ghost my fingers over the soft pout of his lips, the razor curve of his cheek.

I sigh, clenching my hands into fists and turning away from Spike, toward the little alarm clock on my night stand instead. 4:45a.m.

I frown, settling back into the pillows behind me with a huff, doing the math in my head. Three hours until Xander will be driving Dawn off to school. Four hours until I should be heading to meet up with Willow for my first class of the day. Six until I can get back to the hospital and pick Mom up, bring her home for a couple days.

I bite down on my bottom lip, chewing it lightly as I shift my eyes back over to the vampire in my bed.

 _The vampire in my bed._

I'm almost starting to get used to this feeling. The whole I'm getting the wiggins because I'm _not_ getting the wiggins scenario.

Waking up with Spike in my bed should probably be an immediate cause for alarm, or disgust. At the very least a mild sense of debilitating shame.

But I can't conjure any of it. Not even the thought that this might have been a bad idea, that this might make things worse. Thoughts I'd had just hours before seem so entirely irrelevant now.

Because nothing last night had felt _bad_. And not even in the everything is upside down, wrong is right and right is wrong type way.

Not bad as in good.

I look over Spike again, studying the planes of his face.

 _Oh, boy._

I lift the covers off my legs, slipping out of the bed as quickly and silently as I can, dashing across the room. I yank a soft pair of grey sweat pants and a loose fitting green t-shirt out of my dresser. I throw the makeshift outfit on quickly, tying the drawstring on the pants and smoothing out the folds of the shirt before I chance a glance back toward my bed.

Spike has shifted slightly, his body now turned toward the empty space I've just vacated. His eyes are still closed, head resting in the crook of his elbow.

I watch from my position across the room as he makes that purry, rumbling sound again, nuzzling his face into the pillow.

Like a cat.

Even in his sleep, that predatory, agile grace touches every movement, no matter how small, he makes.

I wonder if he'd been that graceful when he was human, or if it's all a vampire thing. Or maybe it's learned behavior, practiced and perfected over a hundred years.

I make a little mental note to maybe risk asking him one day.

Satisfied now that my movements haven't woken him up, I turn toward my vanity, leaning forward to evaluate the damage.

I'm relieved to see that I don't look quite as tired today as I had the day before. The bags under my eyes are still there, but not nearly as dark. I actually slept better last night than I think I have in a long time.

No dreams.

The corners of my lips quirk up, and I peek back over at Spike. In order to get the vamp out of my head, apparently I had to invite him into my bed.

 _Go figure._

Turning my attention back to my vanity mirror, I move from examining my eyes to my hair.

I frown.

It's definitely seen better days. And it feels so heavy against the back of my neck, strands tangled and twisted around each other. I grimace, reaching back behind me to comb my fingers through the knotted ends.

I wonder for a moment how it could have gotten so badly tangled, and I'm hit with a fresh wave of images.

Memories of Spike's hands in my hair, threading his fingers through it, pulling it. At one point he'd twisted a long lock around two of his fingers and told me in a deep, sultry whisper how much he likes my hair long.

" _It was shorter, when we met," he says silkily, looking up at me. He skims one hand along my waist, tugs gently on the lock of hair around his fingers with the other._

" _When we_ met _?" I ask, emphasizing the word with roll of my hips, watching his lashes flutter._

" _When I first came to Sunnyhell," he rephrases, dropping his hand from my hair and down to my shoulder, eyes leaving mine to watch the path of his fingers over my skin._

 _I press my palms into his chest. "When you tried to kill me."_

 _He smirks up at me, both hands dropping to my waist, drawing little circles into my hips with his thumbs. "Tried lots of times," he murmurs, "never did quite take, did it."_

I can't really remember what I'd said after that. It might have been nothing.

Talking had been of the pretty sporadic nature.

Even now, the memories make my skin heat up, flushing from my cheeks down my neck and into my chest. I shake my head, pushing the thoughts aside and return to attempting to finger comb my hair, hacking at some of the larger knots until they finally come loose.

Then I take a deep, steadying breath, shake my hair out and pull it behind back and around to one side of my neck. Consciously exposing the bite mark I know I'll find there.

Even knowing, even feeling prepared to see it, something in my stomach clenches up tight and rolls a little. The wounds are dark, two little black holes in the pale light of my bedroom. There are smaller, fainter teeth marks on either side of the punctures.

I reach my hand up, gently tracing the very tips of my fingers over the wounds, shivering and wincing from the stinging pinch that shoots all the way down the left side of my body when I touch them.

I frown deeper, looking into the mirror, at the angry mark on my neck.

And that's when I remember the thing. The thing last night that seemed like it should have bothered me, but hadn't.

It bothers me now.

I cross the room back to my bed, dropping down onto the edge and reaching toward the still sleeping vampire. I get a firm grip around his arm and shake him as hard as I can.

He awakens instantly with a strangled shout, his eyes flying open as he sits bolt upright in bed. The sheets slip down until they're just barely covering his waist.

I pretend not to notice.

"Bloody…what is it?" He asks, bleary eyes blinking, taking in the room around us.

They widen just a little when they focus on me. There's a brief moment, a pause like he's trying to figure out exactly what's going on, remembering where he is, who he's with. Everything that's happened.

His hazy eyes travel slowly down from mine, to the bared curve of my neck, to the bite mark I'd been examining a moment ago.

And then he immediately surges forward, lifting the covers up like he's about to leap out of bed.

I frown, my hand automatically going out to stop him, pushing flat against his shoulder. He stops moving, eyes still a little unfocused as they look into mine.

"What are you doing?" I ask, my voice coming out hoarse, genuinely confused.

He cocks his head to the side, eyebrow shooting sky high looking at me a little like I've suddenly grown two heads.

"What's it look like?" He pushes past me, sliding out of the bed and snatching his jeans off the ground.

I avert my eyes on instinct.

I'm not sure why.

"I'm _leaving_ ," Spike says, stepping into the pants, yanking them up and fastening the button, "before you go all psycho Slayer on me and throw me out."

I turn my gaze back to him at this, brow furrowed, watching him. His eyes are on the ground, scanning the floor of the room quickly for his black cotton t-shirt.

I think about just letting him go, sitting here and not saying anything to him about how throwing him out isn't exactly what I'd been thinking of doing.

But is it easier this way? To let him think that, to go on pretending that it doesn't feel like everything, _everything_ , is different now. To pretend to have the reaction I probably should be having. At least the one I think I should be having. It sounds like it would be easier. I don't think it would be.

I shake my head, trying to clear it. I'm beginning to understand what Spike had said last night, about being so turned around he can't see straight.

I'm seeing in circles.

After a second I clear my throat.

"Who said anything about throwing you out?" I ask, reaching down into the black pile at my feet, lifting up the shirt and tossing it at him.

He catches it against his chest, holding it there for a long beat as he stares back at me, eyebrow still raised high.

"So sorry," he says finally, sounding more than a little sarcastic, "the being shaken violently awake must've given me the wrong impression."

Right.

I probably should've thought about that.

"Yeah," I murmur, dropping my eyes down, running a hand through my now tangle free hair. "I just had a question."

When he doesn't say anything right away, I turn my gaze back up toward him. It's clear from the expression now passing over his face that it isn't what he'd expected me to say. I can see the shock there, but it flickers and passes quickly.

But not before something twists in my stomach.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised that he'd expected me to throw him out. Not just to throw him out, but to do it violently. It's what I would have done any other time, what I would have done before.

Who am I kidding? Before the dreams started, before all this started, I would have staked him the second he even _thought_ about setting foot inside my bedroom. And now we're here, and he's the one that wants to leave and I'm about to…to what? Ask him to stay?

Bizarro world. We're definitely here.

Could it be it's own separate but, like, parallel dimension?

Maybe _that's_ the question I should be asking Giles.

"Oh," Spike says, blinking at me, the ball of black fabric still pressed to his chest. He doesn't make a move to put it on. Instead, eyeing me cautiously, he walks back toward the bed and sits down on the edge, about a foot and a half away from me.

"What's this question, then?" He asks, his voice suddenly much more quiet than it had been a moment ago. The atmosphere between us is charged now that we're both awake, both having thought through the events of the night before.

Or...earlier tonight.

I don't really know when the night stops and the morning begins. I used to think it was when my morning alarm went off, but since becoming the Slayer the line between morning and night has become increasingly blurred.

No that it matters now.

I look toward him, opening my mouth to speak, then snap it back closed again immediately.

From the position he's sitting in, I can see it. Clearly. The dark, purpling bruise on his shoulder where I can still make out the marks my teeth left. The trailing, red scores down his back, dug their by my nails.

I hadn't realized, hadn't even thought about it last night when it had been happening.

Not that Spike had cared. If anything, he'd seemed to like the pain. And hadn't he told me that once already, before?

That night at The Bronze, and I'd asked him the question.

" _You got off on it?"_

And his answering question back to me

" _And I s'pose you're tellin' me you don't?"_

I hadn't answered him then. Maybe because I hadn't known. Or because I hadn't wanted to.

I clear my throat, turning my eyes away from the marks I've left on his skin and back to his face.

"Can you put your shirt on?"

In a matter of seconds, the cocky, over-confident leer is in place, the electric, charged energy between us sparking as he curls his tongue.

"Distractin' you, Slayer?" He teases, but it's less malevolent and more…well, teasing. Like it's meant to make me laugh more than it is to make me blush.

Though I sort of want to do both.

I manage to keep my reaction under control, neutral even though my cheeks do heat up a little, forcing my lips into a straight line. "Just do it."

Spike complies, but not before shooting me a wink. He makes a big show of slipping the fabric over his head, arching his back and pulling it down to cover his stomach.

I roll my eyes, waiting for the curtain call, fighting the urge to tap my foot impatiently. He finally turns to look at me, smug smile still in place as he runs one hand through his hair, taming the platinum curls.

I raise my eyebrows at him. He leans toward me.

"The floor is yours, pet," he drawls, gesturing toward me with a sweeping flourish.

I feel my jaw clench. Funny, these dreams have made me see Spike differently, in so many ways. Somehow, they haven't managed to make his infuriating tendencies any less...infuriating.

It's that same smug arrogance that first drew me to him. The way he'd looked me dead in the eyes, knowing exactly who and what I was, and said that he'd kill me on Saturday. I'd been fascinated by him, and even though I hadn't admitted it, I'd also been afraid of him.

He would've killed me that night, too. On Parent Teacher Night, he'd beaten me. If Mom hadn't been there, if she hadn't come back.

It's easy to forget now, with everything that happened last year with the Initiative and the chip, how very dangerous he is.

Which brings me full circle, back to the fact that a very dangerous, very government chipped Master Vampire sunk his fangs into my neck last night.

And nothing bad happened. To either of us.

"You bit me last night," I say bluntly, dropping the pretense entirely.

Spike blinks at me, sobering instantly. The smug expression melts off his face. "Not exactly a question—"

"How?" I ask, interrupting.

He sits back on the bed, tilting his chin up and raising both eyebrows now. Like it's the dumbest question in the world.

"How?" He repeats flatly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

I nod.

"How did you bite me, Spike?" I shake my head, thinking about it again. "That chip should've scrambled your brain like an egg."

I think about the last time he'd tried to bite me, on the floor of the medical school facility. He'd barely gotten near my throat before the chip had fired, causing him to scream and clutch at his head in pain.

The vampire frowns, thinking about what I've just said. After a long minute he looks at me, nodding his head slowly.

"Well, let me ask you this." He tilts his head to the side. "Did it hurt?"

It's my turn to shift further back on the bed, eyes wide. "The bite?"

"Yes pet," he rolls his eyes, "the bite."

Of course. Because what else would he be talking about.

"Yeah, it hurt," I drop my eyes away from his, chewing a little on my bottom lip. I exhale, then add, "at first."

Spike chuckles, and the bed dips down slightly with his weight as he scoots closer to me.

"At first," he repeats slowly, and then his voice takes on that honeyed, toe-curling quality, "but not at the end?"

I whip my eyes back to his, searching his face. I don't answer him, don't even nod my head. He doesn't need me to say it out loud to know that he's right.

He'd felt it himself.

"Did you like it?" He asks, simply rewording what he's already asked me once, only more directly.

I can see it in his eyes, the raging blue, that he wants me to say it. To admit it out loud.

I keep my mouth closed, lips firmly together.

Admitting to this should feel like a small thing compared to all the others.

I don't know why it doesn't.

But again, I'm reminded by the look in his eyes that Spike doesn't actually need me to say it to know that it's true. He'd felt it as much as I had, physically and otherwise, and no amount of flat out denial from me can hide it from him now.

It feels like the floodgates have been opened.

"Nothin' to be ashamed of," he purrs, leaning back, propping himself up on his elbows against my bed. "Bein' drawn to the darkness. It's already there inside you." He tilts his head to the side, eyeing me. "But you already know that." His eyes blaze. "Don't you."

And I do.

I've known it for a while now, before the dreams, before all this with Spike.

It's darkness that drives the hunt. Darkness that pushes me to keep fighting, even in the face of insane odds. The same primal force I feel when I'm with Spike.

Strength, speed, endurance. They're all part of the Slayer package. It all matters, sure, but they aren't the driving force. Strength and speed don't make a Slayer a Slayer.

It's the darkness in me that Dracula had seen, desired. Coveted. It was his words to me that had made me seek Giles's help in the first place, why we started training harder, differently, why I'd bothered to open those dusty old diaries in the first place.

I watch as Spike's eyes shift over from mine, follow their path over and down, lingering at the curve of my throat.

I feel the pounding of my pulse throb beneath his gaze.

Suddenly feeling very exposed, I fist a handful of my hair and drag it around in front of my shoulder, covering the bite mark back up, and push myself to my feet.

"We need to decide what we're going to tell Giles," I say quickly, folding my arms protectively over my waist as I turn to face him.

Spike sits up straight on the edge of the bed, both eyebrows raised . "I'm sorry, _we_?"

I frown at him. "Yes, we." I shift from foot to foot, gesturing between the two of us as though it should be obvious. "This does sort of involve both of us."

Spike scoffs.

"No." He stands up, bending forward and snapping the leather duster off the ground. "Dealin' with the Watcher is your thing, pet." He slips the coat on fluidly, flipping the collar up as he says, "Not mine."

I gape at him.

He expects me to find a way to explain this whole mess to Giles by myself?

Then again, what had I expected? That we'd walk into the Magic Box...holding hands and giggling? Stand there and tell the story to Giles, laughingly finishing each other's sentences, talking about how this mess happened.

No. No, I hadn't expected that.

But I'd at least thought he could show up with me. Help fill in the gaps that I can't.

In front of me, Spike sighs, rolling his eyes and stepping closer to me when he sees the stricken look on my face. I wonder if he can tell what I'm thinking.

His lips quirk again as he comes to stand right in front of me.

"Look, don't know what all exactly you plan on tellin'," he murmurs, reaching forward to twist another strand of hair around his index finger, azure eyes locked on mine. "But I'm pretty sure there's no version of this where I don't get at least one of you Scoobies tryin' to shove a Red Wood through my chest."

I stare at him, watching his eyes darken, pupils dilating as his gaze drops to my mouth. His voice is low when he speaks again.

"Don't feature a plan where I end up dust."

I swallow.

 _Well, when he puts it like that._

He uncurls the hair from around his finger, shifting slightly so he can drag the backside of his knuckle over my jaw line. Up once, then back down again, lingering just below my lips.

His eyes come back up to mine.

"But Giles might need to have both of us there," I murmur, struggling to keep a hold on my train of thought, watching him lean slowly into me. "If there's a way to fix this, o-or whatever—"

Spike stops abruptly, his whole body going rigid in front of mine. He pulls back away from me, dropping his hand and shaking his head, like he's coming back to himself.

"Right then," he mutters, voice low.

And then he inclines his head toward me, turns and walks out of my bedroom in a swirl of black leather.

He's already out the door and heading down the hallway by the time I realize what it is I've said, what it is he thinks he's understood me to mean. _Fix this._ I probably could have used a better choice of words.

I feel the muscle in my jaw clench in frustration, rolling my eyes as I follow the path out the door he's just taken.

Stupid, reckless, _impulsive_ vampire. This is the second time he's taken and twisted my meaning, possibly the third if we're counting the situation on the back port downstairs.

Which, for my purposes, I am.

For being all with the weird connectedness to me, he's pretty quick to the conclusion jumping.

"I'll come talk to the Watcher boy," he shouts over his shoulder, barreling down the stairs just as I'm coming down the hallway. "Hell, the Watcher, the little bit," he's at the front door now, and I'm making my way down the steps. "The whole sodding _lot_ of you, if it'll keep this," he whirls around, grabs me and violently crushes his lips against mine, pulling away just as quickly, "from happenin'."

We stand there staring at each other, both our chests heaving, his hands wrapped tight around my shoulders. He's still so close to me, the tip of his nose touching the tip of mine.

I shake my head, feeling dizzy. "That isn't even what I—"

But he isn't listening.

He lets go of me so fast I actually stumble backward, fixing me with dark eyes as he says, "You aren't the only one who wants their bloody life back."

He opens the door and rushes out, slamming it in my face, and I can hear him taking off across the wooden porch, crashing down into the grass.

I think he's expecting me to let him go.

I don't.

Wrenching the door open, I fly out onto the porch, down the steps and across the lawn, grabbing Spike by the arm and spinning him around with all the Slayer strength my tired muscles can manage.

Which is still kind of a lot.

"Oh, bloody hell," he groans, looking up at the sky, "what now—"

"Stop it," I cut him off sharply, narrowing my eyes on him. He drops his gaze down to mine instantly, expression clouded.

"Just...stop. I'm tired of _this_." I gesture emphatically with my free hand, not really between the two of us but more toward the air to the side. Because the thing between _us_ isn't really the this I'm referring to.

Spike raises an eyebrow.

I sigh, letting go of his arm.

" _This_ ," I repeat, then clarify, "You, with all the talk about giving in and whatever one second, and then with the intentional misunderstandings a-and the weird mixed signals the next. Okay, we don't have time for that." I pause for a second, long enough to take a deep breath in, exhaling through my nose. I keep my eyes locked on his. "Mom's surgery is in two days. After that, you and I are going to go to Giles, and we're going to deal with this…" now I do gesture between the two of us," whatever this is, head on. No matter what that means. Because I can't do this," I pause, frowning. Then, "the _first_ this…anymore."

There's a very long pause as Spike looks down at me, his eyes very dark as the search my face. I can practically see the wheels turning in his head.

And then his expression softens, and he nods, looking at me thoughtfully. "Alright then."

It's my eyebrow that shoots up this time. "Alright then?"

It's too easy. Spike's more stubborn than this. I fold my arms over my chest, tilting my chin up and eyeing him cautiously.

After all that, the hollering and the door slamming and the storming out.

 _Alright then._

It's that simple? It's never that simple.

"Yeah," he says, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops, splaying his fingers against his hips. "All this can wait 'til after your mum's surgery."

Or maybe it is. That simple, I mean.

Because I don't feel any deception from him as he says it. Not the way I had before, those times he'd been lying about patrol.

I tilt my head to the side, putting my hands on my hips. "Will you go with me to talk to Giles?"

He glares at me, but grudgingly nods. "Told you I would already, didn't I?"

That's true. I guess he had.

I instinctively reach out toward his hand, probably planning to give it a quick little grateful squeeze, but I stop myself before I can.

I let it fall to my side, hitting against my sweatpants with a hollow slap.

"Um, okay, yeah." I step away from him. "Thank you."

I frown, looking away from him.

I'm confused again, both by the action I'd been about to take and trying to noodle out the reason why something as small as reaching for his hand has my head spinning in a way that nothing last night had.

I shake my head to clear it.

This whole thing, the whole stupid situation makes zero sense. Less than zero.

It makes sense to the amount of negative one.

"I'd better go," Spike says, bringing me out of my thoughts, drawing my attention back to him. He gestures with a swift flick of his head over toward the eastern sky. "Sun's almost up."

There's a weird little sense of symmetry to the words, so similar to the ones he'd spoken to me sitting on my back porch. It was only a few nights ago now, but it feels like a lot longer.

Probably because so much has happened.

I nod, backing away from him, not really looking as I turn around and start to walk back toward the house.

I can feel him behind me, eyes burning into my back as I walk. I'm almost to the front porch steps when he speaks again.

"Oh, and Buffy?"

 _Buffy._

The sound of my name on his lips is still so alien sending a tiny shiver down my spine. I wonder if he knows what it does.

I stop short at the bottom of the porch steps, glancing over my shoulder at Spike. In the darkness, I can see his eyes gleaming. The expression on his face is different, like part of him is deathly serious and the other wants to break out in a splitting grin.

I can't tell which impulse is stronger.

Brow furrowed, I stop, turning back around fully to face him.

"You never asked me what my nightmares were about," he says, watching me carefully from his position beneath the big tree at the left corner of my yard.

I exhale, casting my eyes out over to the East, seeing the colors slowly start to shift on the horizon.

"I don't have to," I say, looking back down at him.

I already know they were about me.

"Maybe not," he agrees casually, starting to walk backwards away from me. He tilts his head to the side, a small smirk on his lips. "But you might want to."

And then he's gone. A whirling flash of white and black, practically vanishing into the fading night as he walks quickly down Revello Drive.

And I'm left there staring after him, feeling an awful lot like what he'd really just said to me was much simpler than it sounded. I might want to ask him about his nightmares.

All I hear in my head is his voice, in that low tone that sounds like honey and slow burning wood at the same time.

 _I know something you don't know._


	18. Chapter 18

I spend some time just sitting in the kitchen after Spike leaves, watching the sun creeping up over the horizon from my seated position at the island counter. I think about what he's said, the way he's said it. What it could possibly mean.

If he wanted me to know what his nightmares were about, why didn't he just tell me? Why is it so important that I'm the one to ask?

It's unnerving, and more than a little frustrating. Maybe Spike's just getting me back for all those times he'd wanted answers from me and I'd denied them to him.

Either way, the questions start to form in my head, twisting up my stomach in knots. He'd sounded so sure of himself.

"But you might want to."

I could have sworn the nightmares he'd been talking about were the same, or at least versions of, my own. But the way he'd said it has me thinking there's probably a lot more to it than that.

Or maybe that's my wishful thinking.

I kind of hate the idea of him referring to those dreams as nightmares. Even if that's what I'd considered them to be, too. At first.

I sigh, dropping my head down into my hands, pressing against my temples with my thumbs. I forcefully push all thoughts of Spike out of my head, turning them to more immediate issues.

Like Mom. Like the surgery she's about to have. The one that, hopefully, is going to make everything better again, make things go back to my version of normal.

And then I'll deal with the Spike thing.

Whatever that means.

I tilt my head up slightly, finding the glowing digital clock on the top of the microwave. 6:15 a.m.

I end up calling Willow, letting her know I won't be in class again today. It had been a last minute decision, after Spike had left, that sitting in a classroom feeling bored and scribbling down notes I won't probably use just isn't the best use of my time right now.

I want to be with Mom, discuss the logistics of bringing her home tonight with her Doctors, review anything that may have come up since I'd been there last.

I don't think I can pass this class anyway, even if I do show up today.

Willow sounds disappointed, but I can't tell if she's disappointed in my for not going or more over the strained way things had ended yesterday afternoon. When she asks me if I've thought anymore about what I'd asked her to look into for Mom, maybe changed my mind, I tell her I have to go.

It isn't a lie. I do have to go, need to clean myself up and spend some time covering the mark on my neck before I see Mom.

I know I should tell her about the tumor being operable, but for some reason I don't. I think it might be because I'm worried if I'll tell her she'll stop looking at healing spells, and I'm not ready for her to stop looking yet.

Just in case something goes wrong.

Willow says she understands, and that she'll see me later. I murmur a goodbye and hang up the phone.

When I arrive at the hospital around 9:00 and make my way to in-patient recovery, I'm a little shocked to find Dawn curled up in one of the chairs beside Mom's bed.

"Dawn?" I ask, closing the door behind me, looking back and forth between my sister and Mom, "what are you doing here? You're supposed to be in school."

Dawn frowns at me, folding her arms over her chest. "So are you."

I step further into the room, opening my mouth to say something else, but Mom cuts me off.

"Xander dropped her off about an hour ago," she says, smiling wryly at my little sister, then back to me. "We've already had the 'you should be in school' lecture."

I look back over at Dawn, giving her a small smile. I'm relieved when her shoulders relax, and she smiles back.

Truthfully, I'm kind of glad he's here. It feels better in the hospital, easier, when it's the three of us.

I walk forward and settle myself down on the edge of the hospital bed, angling my body so I can see them both. I focus on Mom.

"Xander was here?" I ask softly, something that feels a little like guilt leeching into my chest. I think back to yesterday. The wounded look on his face when he'd found out what was going on, how he'd been one of the last to find out.

Mom nods, eyeing me cautiously. "He said he just wanted to check in, see how I was doing." She frowns a little, reaching her hand out and touching it lightly to the tender skin just below my eye. "He also said you patrolled last night."

Her hand is freezing.

"Yeah, I did," I say, frowning, reaching up to pull her icy fingers away from my face, holding them in my hand. "I needed to."

Mom shakes her head, doing that authoritative but gentle thing that only Moms can get away with. "You needed sleep. Buffy, did you get any rest at all last night?"

I gulp audibly, feeling the nervous lump in the back of my throat. Of all the things I had done last night, resting wasn't of the highest priority.

And so much for thinking my eye bags looked better.

"I'm fine," I assure her, punctuating the word with a squeeze of her hand. "I promise."

I keep my hand covering hers but turn my eyes to Dawn, who's got an open magazine laying across her lap.

"How was staying at Anya and Xander's?" I ask, hoping to direct the conversation in a place far, far away from my sleeping habits.

Or lack there of.

Dawn turns her eyes up form the article she's reading. "It was fine. We played Life, Anya won, she and Xander talked about sex," she shrugs, looking back down at the magazine. "The usual."

I wrinkle my nose up, looking back over to Mom, who's making a similar, mildly disgusted expression on her face.

"Remind to have a talk to Xander and Anya," I quip.

Mom nods, a little smile tugging at her lips. Then her eyes drop to my neck, and she tilts her head to the side.

"That's a pretty scarf, Buffy," she says, reaching forward and adjusting the little knot I've tied, resting over my collar bone.

When she touches the knot, the scarf shifts slightly, the silky fabric skating over the bite mark on my neck.

An involuntary shiver shoots down my back, the muscles in my upper legs tightening up once in one hard, quick spasm before relaxing again.

I have no idea what's just happened.

The reaction isn't one I'd been expecting, and nothing I've ever felt before. The little jolt hadn't been painful, necessarily, but it hadn't felt good either.

I force my eyes back to Mom's, knowing they probably aren't as clear or focused as they had been a moment ago. She's brought her hand back down to her lap, fixing me with a concerned look.

"Are you okay, honey?" She asks after a moment, eyes fixated on mine. I clear my throat, nodding.

"I'm good," I say quickly, "I think I just got a chill or something." I pause, smiling at her. "Just a little cold in here."

But it isn't all that cold in the room, and Mom knows it. We look at each other, and I wonder if she's going to bring it up again, or just let it go.

Finally, she smiles at me, looking tired but relaxed, and leans back into the pillows behind her.

I smile back.

"If you girls are going to spend the day with me," she says teasingly, reaching down and picking up the TV remote control beside her, "you're going to have to watch Passions."

The morning passes quickly. Dawn and I lounge in the room with Mom, reading magazines, watching bad soap operas, sharing Mom's all together pretty disgusting hospital food.

Dawn does seem to actually like the jell-o, though.

I talk to a few nurses as they wander in and out, and one of the surgeons. But I haven't seen Dr. Kreigel, Mom's main surgeon, and he's the one I'm supposed to talk to today about taking Mom home.

Apparently, he's the one I need to get the medications from, and the one who has to give us the final go ahead.

About mid-afternoon, there's a surprise visit from Willow. She comes bearing gifts, and a sheepish smile, and again I can't tell if she's behaving this way because of yesterday or for some other reason.

Regardless, I smile warmly at her now, hoping to convey to her that things are going to be okay.

In the midst of all the commotion, I notice Mom wincing subtly. I ask her if she's okay, if she has a headache, and she tells me in hushed tones that she does sort of have a little one.

I ask her if she wants us to leave. She shakes her head no.

I end up telling Willow about the operation. I figure Giles would have told her anyway. She looks surprised but pleased, talking animatedly to all three of us about when the surgery will be and if they think it's going to work as she pulls a stack of text books out of her bag and hands them to me.

I frown at her.

"Homework?" I ask, taking the books from her and grimacing down at them.

"And notes, from the classes you've missed." She gestures to the pile, smiling. "To help you study."

I sigh.

"Honestly, Will, I'm not sure it even matters at this point." I turn around, setting the books and notepads down on the little table behind me. "I don't think I'm even going to take this final exam."

"I'd rip it in half and stick it in bed with me!"

All three of our eyes, Willow's, Dawn's and mine, turn toward Mom. She blinking up at us, looking for all the world like she has no idea what she's just said.

I look at her, seeing the deep confusion settling into her face, and my heart hurts. The doctors had warned me about this the other day, when they'd told me where the tumor was located. That it might make her do and say things that aren't…in character for her. That don't make sense.

I step closer to her, reaching a tentative hand down toward hers. "Mom?"

She shakes her head slightly, her vision clearing up a little. She turns her head toward me.

"You know," she says softly, laying her hand on top of mine. "I think I'm gonna take a little rest now."

I nod, taking the cup she's been sipping from out of her hand and placing it on the little tray table beside her. Behind me, Willow starts packing things back into her bag.

I watch as Mom leans back, resting her head against the fluffed pillows behind her.

"Okay," I murmur, tugging the sheets up a little and smoothing them down. Tucking them under her waist. It's the same way she'd used to tuck me in when I was little, when I'd been feeling sick. It comes so naturally to me now. "We'll be right outside if you need us."

I gestured toward Dawn to get up, and she does. The three of us head for the door, stepping quietly out into the hallway. I pull the door shut behind me, Dawn looking up at me with an anxious expression on her face.

She glances toward Willow.

"What was she talking about?" She asks, hands wringing together, fidgeting. "I mean, that was weird."

Willow smiles reassuringly. "She's gonna be fine."

But the sentiment is a little hollow, spoken with that slightly stifling, too calm tone that people always seem to use when they don't know what else to say.

Willow turns green eyes on me, looking like she knows how empty the words sound.

"It's okay," I say, looking between my sister and the Red Head beside me. "I'm sorry, the doctor spoke to me, and uh, I should have told you." I stammer out, pausing, trying to collect my thoughts.

I'd kept this from Dawn when the doctors had first told me. I think I'd thought maybe it wouldn't be an issue, that we'd be able to handle all this, get rid of it before the symptoms ever really started to show.

But seeing how anxious, how upset Dawn is now, I think it might have been a mistake to do that.

"Um, the, the…" _Tumor_. I can't bring myself to say it. God, I've said it before, why does it feel like it never gets easier? "...thing that's pressing on her brain, sometimes it, it might make her say…" I trail off, searching for the right word, "weird things."

Dawn blinks up at me, brow furrowed. But she doesn't look quite as upset now.

"Does she know she's saying them?" She asks.

I shake my head. "Not really. It's sort of like a flash, you know, but you saw her two seconds afterward." I look back toward the room we've just left, like I might be able to see Mom through the closed door. "She was normal."

Willow chimes in now, from beside me, drawing both mine and Dawn's eyes over to her. "And after the operation, no more pressing." She smiles at Dawn, her voice more hopeful, less hollow than before. "She'll be all normal all the time."

Dawn smiles back, looking expectantly over at me.

But I'm suddenly not feeling so certain.

I force a bright smile onto my face, too, hoping it looks more reassuring than it feels. I'm thankful Willow's here to help me comfort Dawn, but at the same time, I feel like the two of us together have made promises and set hopes up too high. We've glossed over all of the if's that still exist, all the dark little niggles in the back of my head that so far I've managed to keep to myself.

I'd been so relieved when I'd found out the tumor was operable, relieved enough to let my mind take a rest, to stop worrying about it constantly. To touch and feel and focus on other things.

My hand goes to the scarf around my neck, tugging lightly on the knot I've tied.

More pleasant things.

But now that the immediate relief has worn off, now that we're back in the hospital and I've seen first hand, for the first time, what that tumor can do to Mom's brain… all the if's are back, and then some.

Sure, after the operation, she'll be all normal all the time.

If the operation works.

If they're able to get it all.

If nothing goes wrong.

I look over at Willow, chewing on my lip, silently hoping she won't abandon her research just yet.

After Willow leaves, Dawn and I wait out in the lobby a little while longer before heading back to Mom's room. She seems a better when we enter, if not a little groggier.

It doesn't stay that way for long.

She seems to drift in and out, having moments of complete clarity, followed by mini fits of wild frustration, shouting and saying things that neither Dawn or I can make much sense of.

When Dr. Kriegel finally arrives, Mom shouts at him, telling him that it hurts her head to be in the hospital.

He tells her there's no reason to be so upset.

It only makes things worse.

I look him in the eyes and calmly explain to him that we want to go home. Tonight.

All three of us.

He's extremely hesitant at first, the same way Dr. Isaacs had been last night. Trying to talk Dawn and I out of it, scaring us with the notion of how much work it'll be.

No doubt wondering how two young girls can manage to care for their mother better than a hospital staff full of experts.

In the back of my mind, I worry he might not be wrong. But Mom is hysterical, almost in tears when it looks like he won't be letting us take her and my stomach is in knots, heart aching for her.

For the stricken expression on Dawn's face. So I hold firm.

It's what she would do for me.

I fight the urge to laugh out loud when he warns me I won't be getting much sleep.

I fix him with a hard look, a little wry smile curving my lips and say, "I'm not much of a sleep person anyway."

He finally nods, conceding to me, and presses the little call button beside Mom's bed to alert a nurse to our situation. She offers to help Mom get dressed, and the doctor gestures for Dawn and I to follow him into the hallway.

An hour later, Dawn, Mom and I are standing out in the hallway leading toward the lobby, standing in front of Dr. Kriegel as he reviews the medication list and directions with me one final time.

My head is spinning with information overload, and it feels like it'll explode if I have to fit one more pill name or what it does inside it.

Finally, the doctor sighs.

"Well, I guess we're all set then," he says, handing me a piece of paper with different pill descriptions and time written next to them.

He gives me a hard look, more out of concern than disdain, and puts his hands on his hips.

"You've got my home phone number, pager number, and here," he hands me three bottles of pills, the names on their labels matching those on the piece of paper, "these are the medications I talked to you about. The sedative and so forth," he nods toward the bottles meaningfully, painkillers."

Sedatives. Painkillers. It sounds like we're taking her home to hospice rather than just keeping her comfortable for a couple days until surgery.

Dr. Kriegel had explained when the use of a sedative might be necessary, how many pain killers to give Mom if she started to complain of headaches. Secretly, I'd been hoping to not have to use any of them. Not the sedatives, at least.

He'd indicated to me that I might want to give her one if she started to have an "episode". That's what he'd called it. An episode, which only makes me think of the 30 minute sitcoms that are on week nights that aren't all that funny, but have the laugh tracks built in so you feel sort of compelled to laugh anyway.

What happens to Mom when that thing presses on her brain isn't an episode. Not funny. Not even fake, laugh track funny.

I know that isn't what he means by it, but I can't help but feel this tiny, slow growing sense of resentment building toward the surgeon who's supposed to save my mom's life.

And that can't be good.

So I force a smile, hoping for reassuring. Hoping that I look like someone who's capable of taking care of someone else.

"Right," I say, gripping the paper and pills more firmly in my hands. "No problem."

Dr. Kriegel doesn't look like I've convinced him. He glances at at Dawn, then again toward our mother, then back to me. He sighs, leaning forward slightly, dropping his voice down so I know he's mostly talking to me.

Though I'm pretty sure everyone else can hear him.

"Now," he begins, trying his best, I'm sure, not to sound too condescending. But failing miserably. "If this is gonna be too much for you, we can make your mom perfectly comfortable here—"

"No." I cut him off instantly, not even waiting for him to finish the thought. When he looks a little taken aback, and I smile again, softening my voice as I continue. "No, no, I…" I take a deep breath, exhaling quickly. "I got this."

And I'm mentally crossing my fingers, hoping that I actually do.

"We really, really appreciate-"

"You look just like your father when he cries."

I look at Mom, feeling a funny, cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. She's looking back at me, staring at me dazedly. I get the impression that she could look right through me if she tried hard enough.

She's been saying things like this a lot today, too. I don't know what they're supposed to mean.

Probably nothing.

I turn back to the doctor, clearing my throat. "I-I told you she's been-"

"I know." Dr. Kriegel turns his full attention on Mom. "Joyce?" When she doesn't move, doesn't bother to look toward him, he steps closer to her. Repeats her name, a little more sternly this time. "Joyce. We're all done here." She looks at him now, smiling strangely. It makes my insides go cold. The doctor gestures toward Dawn and I with a nod of his head. "Why don't you take your girls home now."

"Yes." Mom says, nodding, her eyes regaining their focus. I can practically see it happen, the moment she returns to herself. "Yes, thank you." She looks at me, then Dawn, and smiles. "Thank you for all your help, doctor."

Dr. Kriegel nods, casting one last, disconcerting glance my way, then looking once more to Mom. "I'll see you in a couple of days."

I've never been more relieved to see our house than I am tonight. Beside me, Mom sighs. I glance over at her and she's smiling. A normal, Mom smile. Not the strange, vacant one from the hospital.

I feel relief flood my chest all over again.

I knew that coming home, being in a familiar environment would help. She's been cooped up in that hospital for days. No wonder she'd started to act out.

I would have, too.

"Here we go," I say, moving to the side to allow Dawn and Mom to pass me, skirting around behind the door to flip on the foyer light switch.

"Oh," Mom sighs, "It's nice to be home."

"Do you wanna go in to bed, Mom?" Dawn asks, as I move around her, pushing the front door closed and locking it. .

"Buffy, no," Mom says suddenly, squeezing her eyes shut, putting her hand to her head. "That light is too bright. It's too bright."

"Oh, okay," I say, my eyes going wide as I whirl around, "okay!" Stricken, kicking myself for my thoughtless behavior, I dash across the foyer to the light switch, flipping it hurriedly back off.

"It's too bright," Mom is saying, even as I move around the corner to flip the dining room lights off, too. "Buffy, it hurts." I turn back toward her, see her eyes scrunched together, brow furrowed in pain. "It hurts, it hurts my eyes."

"It's off," I soothe softly, coming to stand beside her. I put my hands on her arm, squeezing gently. "It's off."

I turn to Dawn, mimicking Mom with my best soothing-yet-firm tone of voice. "You know what, why don't you turn off the lights in the living room," I nod to her, and she nods back, understanding me. I turn back to face Mom. "And I will take you upstairs and we'll shut off all the lights up there. Okay?" I wait for Mom to acknowledge me, and she does, the barest nod of her head, inclined toward the stairs. I loop my arm around her back and step to the side, cleaning a path for her. "Come on."

She starts to head up the stairs and I follow, giving one last, soothing smile to Dawn who smiles tentatively back at me. I watch as she turns and moves toward the living room, reaching for a flipping off the table side lamp. The bottom floor goes completely dark just as Mom and I are coming to the landing at the top of the stairs.

When we pass by my bedroom, the door still wide open, I can't help but glance inside. See the tangle of sheets, my comforter thrown back where Spike had tossed it off his body when he'd gotten up. The pillow nearest to me still slightly indented where his head had been.

If I were to go lay down there now, it would smell like him. Smoke and leather and soap. The scarf around my neck seems to tighten, the sudden throbbing of my heart rate picking up, pulse pumping just under his bite wound.

I turn my face quickly away from the room before my memories, my mind, can get carried away again, stepping up beside Mom and linking my arm with hers as I guide her down the hallway and into her own bedroom.

She falls asleep quickly, after I tell her I'll check on her in a little while, and Dawn and I head back down stairs.

I slump down on the sofa with a sigh. Dawn does the same, flopping down on the cushion directly beside mine.

She looks at me. I look back.

Finally, she says, "Everything's going to be okay now." She looks away from me, toward the dark TV screen. "Right?"

I reach toward my little sister, placing my hand gently on the side of her head and tugging it down to my shoulder. At first she stiffens, but soon I feel her muscles relax, the full weight of her head pressing down into the curve where my shoulder meets my neck.

I wait until her breathing evens out, the soft sound of slumber the only noise coming from her lips, before I answer her.

"I hope so, Dawnie," I whisper, leaning down to press a light kiss to the side of her head, through the soft strands of chestnut hair at her temple.

I reach down for the TV remote control, flipping the TV on and leaving the volume on very low. It's a re-run of I Love Lucy. I lean back a little on the sofa, settling in to watch the black and white images flicker in front of my eyes, dancing off the dark windows behind me.

Faintly, I can hear the echo of the built in audience laugh track.

 _I hope so._

It's the only thing I can say. The only _true_ thing. And it isn't enough.

I don't know how long I sit there on the sofa, one arm around my sister, the other resting lightly at my side. Despite having drifted to sleep almost instantly, Dawn doesn't stay sleeping long. She wakes up about three minutes into the second I Love Lucy re-run, lifting her head off my shoulder and yawning loudly.

For a moment I think she's about to move away from me completely, but instead she simply adjusts her position, sitting back further into the cushions and leaning her shoulder into mine.

"What time is it?" She asks, and I can hear another yawn in her voice.

I glance toward her. "Mm, about half past lame 50's sitcom re-runs."

I gesture toward the TV with the remote control, having forgotten I'd even picked it up.

Dawn looks from me to the flickering black and white images and back again. She wrinkles her nose.

The corners of my lips twitch as I look at her. I've seen her wrinkle her nose a hundred times, but I've never noticed how much she looks like me when she does it.

It's probably one of the only times she does.

"Not your thing?" I ask. Dawn shakes her head, actively stifling yet another yawn. I sigh, smiling a little as I reach over and hand the remote control to her.

"Me neither."

"Do you wanna watch a movie?" she asks me after a minute of flipping channels, finding nothing on that interests her.

I shrug. "Whatever you want." She yawns again. I reach over and take the remote back from her. "Or you could just go to bed."

Dawn immediately shakes her head, even as she hasn't finished yawning. "I'm not tired."

I raise my eyebrow and she looks up at me sheepishly.

There's a brief pause as she looks between me and the the staircase leading up to her bedroom.

"Are you staying up?" she asks finally.

I think about it for a second, looking past her shoulder toward the staircase. Thinking about my bedroom, the way it had looked when I'd passed by it earlier. Knowing what I'll feel when I go in there, looking at the bed, seeing the spot that Spike had been only just last night. This morning.

The scent of him everywhere, mingled with my vanilla.

And strawberries.

My hand flies to the spot on my neck where I know his bite is hidden beneath the scarf, and that same shiver I'd gotten at the hospital, the sharp jolt straight to my legs, races through me again.

I think about what might happen once I lay back down, pull the tangled sheets up over my legs, press my cheek into the pillow.

Sleep.

I'm not sure I'll ever be able to just sleep in that bedroom again.

Which is probably just fine, for now. The doctor told me I wouldn't be getting much sleep anyway.

Probably for the best.

"Umm," I say, clearing my throat which has suddenly gone dry, tearing my gaze away from the stairs and back to Dawn's, "probably." A beat. "For a little while."

Dawn considers this, chewing lightly on her bottom lip before exhaling through her nose.

"Can I stay up with you?" she asks softly, leaning her shoulder more firmly into mine. "For a little while?"

She looks so small to me right now. So fragile. And so very, very young.

Which makes me think about the night before, when Spike had first stepped inside my bedroom. The photograph he'd been fixated on, of Xander and Willow and me.

At sixteen.

I was closer to Dawn's age in that photo than to the age I am now.

"You're so bloody young."

Did I look as young to Spike then as Dawn looks to me? As small?

Is that the Slayer Spike remembers me being, the reason that clouded look had covered his features when he'd looked back at me?

"Buffy?"

I'm drawn out of my thoughts by the sound of Dawn's voice, blinking as I refocus on her. She's looking at me with a furrowed brow, searching my face.

"Yeah, sure," I say, only halfway remembering the question she'd asked. I smile at her, watching as the lines on her forehead smooth over again. "What do you wanna watch?"

Dawn looks back at the TV, chewing the inside of her cheek thoughtfully. She picks up the remote again, starts flipping channels. I watch her as she does.

After a minute she shifts her eyes back to mine. "They're selling non-stick pans on the Home Shopping Network."

I smile at her, taking a strand of her hair in my hand and pushing it back over her shoulder.

"Okay," I say, turning back to face the TV screen. "But if you even think about asking me for the credit card, we're turning it off."

Dawn laughs at me, pointing out that, of the two of us, she isn't the one with a shopping problem.

I don't bother to deny it. I'm too happy to hear her laughing.

They've switched from non-stick pans to lip gloss that lights up in the dark when Dawn and I both hear it. A clanging, clinking sound, coming from the direction of the kitchen.

I frown, sitting up straight. neither of us had fallen asleep, but I hadn't noticed any movement to our right, anywhere near the stairs. Maybe because the whole house is so dark.

Dawn looks at me with wide eyes before turning her head in the direction of the kitchen. I grab the remote and flip off the TV so we can hear better.

"Mom?" She calls out, glancing back at me with an anxious expression when she doesn't immediately get a response.

A second later there's another crashing noise, louder than the first, like pots and pans clattering to the floor.

Dawn and I are both up, off the sofa in an instant, dashing through dining room and into the darkened kitchen.

The first thing I see is Mom. She's standing, leaning slightly down, silhouetted against the light coming from the open fridge. She's gripping the open door handle and staring straight forward.

The second thing I see, or hear rather, is the sizzling sound coming from my right. I whip my eyes toward it, taking in the sight of the seemingly empty pan, steaming and sizzling on top of the stove. There's just the smallest bit of smoke pouring out of it.

"Oh, my—" I choke out, immediately rushing to the stove, flipping it off. I grab the handle of the pan without stopping to consider that it might be hot, yanking it off the burner, choking and coughing on the smoke that fills my lungs.

It smells like butter. Burned butter.

I turn back around in time to see Dawn hovering beside Mom, who still has her hand on the fridge door handle. She turns around to look at me, and the look on her face is angry.

Brow furrowed, eyes narrowed. Her lips in a thin line.

It's the look she used to get on her face when I'd be in trouble at school, or if I brought home a not so great report card.

And it seems so out of place now.

"Mom," I say, stepping toward her, "wha-what are you doing?"

Mom looks at me blankly, like I've just asked her something absolutely ridiculous.

She scoffs.

"I'm making breakfast," she says huffily, slamming the fridge door closed and turning full toward me. There's a pause as she looks me up and down, and I watch as her lips curl, features distorted in a look of pure disgust.

It makes everything in my go cold. I've never seen my mother look at me the way she is now.

Never.

"And you shouldn't eat any more," she says finally, spitting the words out with more venom than I would have thought possible, her eyes cold as they meet mine. "You're disgustingly fat."

I feel my breath catch in my throat and I stop moving, coming to a halt a foot or so in front of Mom.

The words cut me. Even though I know she doesn't mean them, despite knowing in my heart they aren't true.

That almost makes it worse. Mom isn't looking at me like this, saying these words to me because she wants to. It's completely out of her control, against her will.

She wouldn't be saying them at all, acting like this at all, if it weren't for the tumor pressing in on her brain.

I blink my eyes rapidly, unsure what to say. What to do next.

I glance at Dawn, who has the same stricken, hurt look on her face that I probably have on mine.

And when I look back at Mom, when I force myself to look back into the eyes that just moments ago had been so cold, all I see there is confusion.

The disgust has completely melted away, and Mom looks at me now with what can only be fear.

I go cold all over again.

"Oh, Buffy," Mom breathes, searching my eyes, my face, frantically. I can see it, even in the darkness from where I'm standing, her eyes are wet. "I don't know what I'm doing."

And she sounds so lost.

In this moment, I hate this. Truly, wildly, in a way I haven't recognized or hated anything before.

All of it.

I hate the tumor and the fact that it's in her brain. I hate that I don't feel like I know how to take care of her. I hate that I feel like I'm the one who has to make promises I can't keep. I hate that this is something I can't fight with my fists.

I hate the hospitals and the doctors and the pills and the "what if"'s and the "we hope this makes it better"'s. I hate the not knowing, the never knowing.

I hate that I'm looking at my mom, but she doesn't seem like my mom. I hate that she's looking at me like I can somehow make everything better when I know that I can't.

I blink, feeling my eyes beginning to sting, either from tears or from lack of sleep, I don't know. I don't care.

Whatever it is, I hate it, too.

"You just need some rest," I manage out, my voice coming out stronger than I'd thought it would. I reach for Mom, linking my arm through hers, trying my best for a bright smile. "We'll put you back to bed."

I nod toward Dawn, who's still looking a little unsure. But she steps forward and takes Mom's other arm anyway, and together the three of us head back toward the stairs.

I give Mom a sedative. I don't want to, but she asks me for one. In the same small, lost voice she'd used in the kitchen, and my heart aches inside my chest. And I agree.

She waits until Dawn leaves the room to take it, though.

I don't think she wants to scare her anymore than she feels like she already has. I can see it on her face as I hand her the big white pill, the glass of water, that she's feeling guilty over what happened downstairs. What she said.

So when she hands the glass back to me, I deliberately squeeze her hand. She smiles up at me and I smile back, before pulling the covers up over her and brushing a stray strand of hair off her forehead.

I wait for her to fall back asleep before I dare leave the room, pulling her door softly shut behind me once I reach the hallway.

Dawn's standing in front, dressed in her pajamas, looking at me.

"Is she okay?" she asks, glancing over my shoulder at the door.

I nod, sighing, reaching my hands up to tighten the clip that's holding my hair in place.

"She's just really tried, Dawnie," I tell her, stepping forward and putting my hand on my sister's arm. "She'll feel better in the morning, after she's gotten some sleep." I guide her to her bedroom door, a few feet away from Mom's, and glance pointedly toward it. "And so will you."

Dawn doesn't even try to argue with me this time. She just nods, stifling another timely yawn, and turns from me to go into her bedroom.

I watch her step inside, then turn to walk back down the hallway, heading for the stairs with the intention of cleaning up the kitchen, turning off that light in the basement.

I stop at the landing when I hear Dawn call my name.

"Buffy?"

I turn back toward her, eyebrows raised. She stares at me for a moment before she speaks again.

"I love you," she says softly, almost a whisper.

It's the first time she's told me that in months. Honestly, I actually can't remember the last time she's said it to me.

My insides flush warm, the same way they'd gone cold earlier in the kitchen. My eyes start to sting again, but I ignore it.

I smile at Dawn, a genuine smile this time, and whisper back, "I love you, too."

She gives me a quick smile back before ducking inside the room, closing her door behind her.

I take my time walking down the stairs, treading the familiar path from the landing to the kitchen.

It still smells like something's been burned, but the smoke is gone now. I survey the damage. There are stacks of dishes piled up in one side of the sink, probably from a couple days ago as well as from earlier tonight. The smoking pan is where I'd left it, tossed haphazardly, sticking up halfway out of the other side of the sink.

I sigh, letting the air flutter my lips as I step up to the sink, flipping on the faucet and reaching for the dish soap.

It doesn't take long for the monotony of the task to catch up with my brain. Instead of being mindless, keeping my busy, I feel my thoughts start to wander almost instantly. To my Mom, sleeping in her bedroom. To Dawn, hopefully sleeping in hers.

To what our lives might be like if something goes wrong during surgery. Before tonight, I'd thought the worst possible scenario would be if the surgery for whatever reason didn't work. Even then, I'd always, in the back of mind, been considering a plan B to get rid of the tumor if something were to go wrong.

The spell. The research I'd asked Willow to do.

I hadn't wanted to think about what it would mean if Giles was right, about the healing spells. About what they could do to Mom, how it could change her if it went wrong.

Fundamentally. That's the word he'd used. Fundamentally change who she is.

I hadn't cared at the time, thinking that anything would be better than losing her completely.

But I think he'd been right. If those moments, those horrible moments like the one tonight where I'm looking at my mom and wondering where she is…if that's what it could be like…all the time.

I squeeze my eyes shut against the sudden rush of tears. They're hot and stinging, and there's so many of them, I'm not able to blink them away. They slip past my eyelids, some of them getting trapped in my lashes, some of them sliding over my cheeks.

I take a shuddering breath, dropping the plate I have in my hands and letting it sink into the soapy water with a splash.

The faucet is still running. My mind is such a jumble.

It's the reason I barely hear the basement door creak slowly open, why I nearly leap out of my skin when I hear the voice from behind me.

"Slayer."

I freeze at first, then hurriedly rub my hands over my eyes, beneath them, desperately trying to get rid of the puffiness, the makeup stains I'm sure are streaming down my cheeks now.

I don't know if it's because I don't want Spike to see me crying, or if I don't want him to see me looking like such a mess.

Maybe both.

I finish wiping at my face, splashing it once with some cold water from the faucet before flipping the tap off and reaching for a dry towel near by.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, using the towel to pat my face dry, still not turning to look at him.

I feel him take a step toward me, the sharp tingle shooting down my spine a dead giveaway that he's moved closer to me.

Instead of answering my question, I hear him take a deep breath. Clear his throat.

I stare straight ahead, focusing my eyes on the dark window in front of me. I try and picture where he is, where his reflection might be if he cast one.

When he finally does speak, his voice is very low.

"You all right?"

I take a breath, pressing the backs of my hands to the swollen skin below my eyes one last time before turning around. I school my face into an impassive expression, carefully avoiding looking directly into his eyes.

"I'm fine," I fold my arms across my chest, shifting my shoulders back.

I'd fully anticipated not seeing him again for another few days, until after Mom's surgery, like we'd discussed.

I focus on his feet, the faint light from the basement filtering in between his legs, and that's when I realize.

He hadn't come from outside. He'd come up from the basement.

I frown, risking a glance at his face.

"How long were you down there?"

At first, I don't think he's going to answer me. Then, he sighs, dropping his eyes down.

"Not long," he murmurs, rocking slightly back on his heels. "You birds were all upstairs when I got here."

I go through the time table in my head.

So he'd been here already, probably standing on the basement steps, more than likely watching me while I'd cried.

Perfect.

Abandoning the pretense, I sniffle, unfolding my arms and leaning back into the sink.

Spike looks back up at me. His eyes are shadowed, looking very dark in the lightless kitchen. I can tell that he's searching my face, taking some kind of stock of the state that I'm in.

Like he doesn't know, already.

I sigh, shaking my head, sounding very tired as I ask him again, "What are you doing here, Spike?"

His expression darkens, and he looks very much like this is a question he wishes I'd stop asking.

When he doesn't make a move to answer me for a second time, I raise both eyebrows, eyes widening.

His eyes flash, and he growls low in his throat as he steps forward.

he doesn't come right into my space, but rather stops a few frets away. Like there's some wonky, invisible barrier in front of me.

I can see the different emotions playing over his face. Anger, concern, frustration, something that looks a little bit too much like longing for me to be 100% comfortable with. Whatever the answer to my question is, it's clear he doesn't want to tell me.

Which is why I need to know.

"Spike," I say, sounding every bit as tired as I suddenly feel, scrubbing both hands down over my face, "I don't…" I close my eyes. "Please, just tell me–"

"What I'm doing here?" He asks, interrupting me. His voice is strange. Not angry, exactly, but far from calm. Very different from the cocky tone he'd had this morning, when he'd mentioned his nightmares to me.

I open my eyes, and he's standing much closer to me now. Still not too close, but close enough that I can see the stormy navy blue of his irises.

"Look," he says, jaw muscle clenching, "I dunno, alright?" He turns away from me suddenly, walking back toward the basement door, stopping, turning back to me.

"I just—" he cuts himself off with another growl, clearly struggling with the words. "I just…felt…" he exhales through his nose, "like you might…"

He stops short again, shaking his head, turning his eyes up to the ceiling. "I felt you…"

And the stormy midnight blue meet my eyes again, and there's that same look. Indecision, and powerlessness, and something else. Something warm.

Felt me.

He'd said he'd felt me.

I feel my body move, automatically taking a step toward him.

But he looks away from me again quickly, haltingly, and I can see how much he isn't wanting to tell me any more.

It makes my stomach do that twisty thing it seems to always do around him lately.

"Oh, bloody hell," he mutters, half under his breath. Not looking at me. "Never mind."

I watch silently as Spike turns around, heading for the door that leads out into the backyard.

He stops when he reaches it, hand reaching out toward the door knob, and turns back to look at me.

"You know where to find me when you're ready to talk to the Watcher," he says, then, like an after thought, "or… whatever."

He moves to turn the knob, open the door.

A surge of instant, unexplainable panic flood my chest, and his name is out of my mouth before I even realize I'm saying it.

"Spike."

And the way I've said it is different. Feels different, sounds different. Like it's part desperate, breathless plea and part command. I'm not sure I've ever heard my own voice sound like this.

But it works.

Spike stops, hand still on the door knob, but he turns back around to look at me.

We stare at each other, some unseen current pulsing between us. I watch him swallow, and then his hand slowly falls away from the door and he turns full around to face me.

The island is the only thing between us, and for as intensely as I'm feeling his presence now, it might as well not exist at all.

"What?" He asks finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

I don't want to do it. God, I really don't want to do it. But for some reason, standing in the kitchen that still smells a little like burning, my sleeping sister upstairs. My mother upstairs. The people who need me, who are so clearly depending on me. All the pressure I've put on myself. All the worries and the fears and the hatred, the things I've worked so hard to hold in.

The strength I feel like I don't have, the strength I pretend to have for everyone else around me, crumbles apart under his fierce gaze.

The one person I've never wanted to be vulnerable around. The only person I feel like I can be now.

And I don't want to do it, don't want to say it.

But I do anyway.

"Don't go," I whisper, searching his face with my eyes, feeling them sting, growing wet again. The threat of tears is thick in my voice.

And I know looking at him now, can see it written all over his face, that he isn't going to.

I'd expected that. Known somehow that if I asked him not to, he wouldn't leave. I'm certain it has something to do with the connection between us, though I don't know exactly what.

Yes, I'd expected him to stay.

What I hadn't expected, hadn't even considered, is what happens next.

I watch as Spike moves away from the back door, shrugs out of his duster and lays it over the counter stool nearest him. He doesn't make a sound, not a single noise, as he slowly winds around the island until he stops finally, directly in front of me.

I look up at him, and he stares back down at me. There's so much, so many different things, reflected back at me in his eyes. The same emotions from before, the warm thing I can't quite get a grip on.

It's so long, the moment that passes between us now.

And then he wordlessly reaches toward me, wrapping one arm around my waist and the other around my back.

He pulls me into him, cradling me in his arms, my forehead resting against his shoulder.

Hugging me.

It's what he's doing. It's what I'd needed him to do.

Whether either of us realized it before now or not.

I hardly hesitate at all before I have my arms around his waist, holding myself to him.

And when the tears finally start to fall again, like I know he knew they would, he lets them soak into his t-shirt.


	19. Chapter 19

I have no idea how long we stand like this. It could be hours, but it might just be minutes. We don't move. My hands stay hooked together, knotted loosely at the small of his back while his arms stay firm, strong around me. His right hand wraps around, curved over the side of my shoulder while his left wraps around my waist. Every once in a while, I feel his chest move as he exhales, the slow rise and fall making my forehead shift higher up on his shoulder.

The tears stopped a while ago.

I'm not sure exactly why I haven't let go of him yet.

But he hasn't let go of me, either.

I think part of the problem is I'm afraid if I pull away from him the moment will be broken, this quiet truce between us will end and things will grow tense again. Or worse, awkward.

I can't do the awkward, dance around what's happening thing right now.

But we can't just stand like this in my kitchen all night, either.

So with a deep breath, a long, slow exhale, I sort of reluctantly peel myself away from him. When I pull my arms back to myself, I let my fingers linger just second too long against Spike's hips. I can tell by the subtle shift in his body language that it doesn't go unnoticed.

His arms slip slowly away from me, too, his hands ghosting gently over me before he pulls them back to his sides.

I feel the absence, the cool air against my back where his arms had just been instantly. An acute, empty feeling and I wish immediately I hadn't been the first to move.

But it's too late.

I'm separated from him now, far enough that I can feel his eyes on my face even though I'm focused on the ground at my feet. My forehead feels hot, my face sticky where I'd let the tears fall, not bothering to wipe them away. I can only imagine how red, how puffy my eyes are.

I fight the urge to launch forward, bury my face in his shoulder again.

Spike is the first to speak.

"All this over your mum?" He asks softly, shifting another step back from me.

I nod, sniffling. I reach my hands up, pressing the backs of them to my eyelids. My cheeks feel a little warm, but I'm not sure if it's from embarrassment at being so completely vulnerable in front of Spike, or just another part of the reaction that's becoming so normal when I'm close to him.

When I risk a glance up at his face, he's frowning, dark brows knit together.

"What?"

My voice is scratchy, hollow sounding from the soft sobs I'd muffled against Spike's shirt. I clear my throat.

In front of me, he shakes his head. His expression is clouded.

"The operation?" He asks, voice still soft, clear eyes studying my face.

I nod again, wondering if he knows that from context clues, putting two and two together, or if that had been part of what he'd felt from me earlier.

The connection is still new, still so tentative. I'm not sure if there's more to it than just general feelings, _sensing_ each other. And if there could be more to it than that, what exactly that might be. What it could mean.

It's another question for Giles.

"Yeah," I say, my voice only a little stronger now.

He nods but frowns deeper, raising an eyebrow at me. "Thought that was good news."

"Um, yeah," I sniffle again, touching my hand to the side of my head. It's aching a little. "I mean, it is." I close my eyes, suddenly feeling silly. The weight of what's just happened, the tenderness we've been showing each other. Because that's what it was. The way he'd wrapped his arms around me, the way I'd clung to him. Neither of us moving, or speaking. Not one thought, one ounce of the lusty haze clouding my vision the way it had the night before.

It's intimate on an entirely different level.

He'd come here tonight because he'd felt me.

Because I'd needed him to.

I shake my head, forcing my eyes open again. I look up at him trying to read the look in his gaze now. "Of course it is."

Spike nods slowly, tilting his head to the side. He purses his lips as though thinking very hard about something.

Then, "But you're still worried."

It isn't a question.

Tears flood my eyes again and I fight to blink, to clear them away before they can fall again. But I'm not quick enough. One single tears escapes as I blink a final time, loosing itself from my lower eyelash and slipping in a slow line over the curve of my cheek.

I'm watching Spike, my eyes fixed to his, so I see very clearly his own gaze following the trail of the tear as it comes to rest at the tip of my jaw.

And then he reaches up, brushing the pad of his thumb over the underside of my jaw, wiping the wetness away with a gentleness I would never have believed him to possess.

Though I guess I should have known. This is the same man, the same vampire, who cared for an insane Drusilla for over one hundred years. Who doted on her, cared for her any and every need. Who…

I stop that train of thought in it's tracks, shaking my head and taking a large step backward, away from the vampire in question.

"God, don't—" I stare at him, blinking rapidly, trying to clear my eyes of the rest of the tears before another can fall. "What…" I squeeze my eyes closed, taking a deep, steadying breath in before opening them and meeting his again. "Why are you doing this, Spike?"

He looks confused, brow furrowing. He shakes his head in a small, quick movement. "Why am I…"

I turn away from him, putting both my hands to either side of my head.

"You show up here out of the blue exactly when—" I cut myself off, taking a deep breath, reminding myself of my sleeping family above me.

Needed you.

It's what I'd wanted to say, the words on the tip of my tongue, but I don't.

Instead, I wheel back around to face him, dropping my hands down. Dropping my voice with them.

"And then you…you…just," I gesture to him, to the spot in the kitchen that's now between us, where we'd been a moment ago, "stand there and you…God, you hold me. And now you're…" I trail off, looking up at him. I search his fathomless eyes with mine, looking for something. An answer, maybe, to the question I'm not even sure has one. "Why?"

Spike stares at me, half his face hidden from me in shadow. The way he's standing now, one eye looks black. The other is bright, clear, almost Robin's Egg blue in the moonlight.

Dark and light. Two sides of the same coin.

It seems significant somehow, but my mind is too jumbled to make sense of it in the moment.

The moment that stretches on, silence filling in around us, making my ears pound.

When he finally does speak, his voice is soft, slightly strained.

"I don't know."

And I don't think it's the truth. Not the entire truth, at least. If the the way he's said it didn't give that away, then the look in his as eyes as he steps toward me now does.

His face is in full light now, both eyes that piercing, crystal color of blue. I know it's mostly a trick of the light.

But I feel like he's seeing straight through me.

I hold my ground, refusing to break eye contact with him as he moves closer still. When he steps into my personal space I tilt my chin back and ask, barely above a whisper, "Why did you come here?"

Spike sighs, eyes going to the ceiling as the words leave his lips in a small, exasperated way. "I told you—"

"That you felt me," I finish for him, nodding my head. It isn't the question I'm asking. "But what did you feel?"

This brings his gaze snapping back down to mine. But he's already starting to shake his head, and I can see the words forming behind his eyes before he even starts to speak.

"I don't…"

"Spike," I say, cutting off his response. I exhale through my nose, closing my eyes.

No more lies, I think urgently, not knowing, not really caring if that's the way the connection works or not.

I need a straight answer. Just one, something to give one small thing a tiny bit of closure tonight. I won't be getting any from anywhere else.

My eyes snap open when I feel Spike's hand, cool, gentle fingers cupping my chin. I open them to the raging, swirling light blue looking down at me.

"Like you needed me, alright?"

His eyes burn into mine for another second longer, and then he drops his hand from my chin and steps away from me, turning his back.

I stare at him, the back of his head where I can see the soft platinum curls at the nape of his neck, blinking. Stunned.

But at the same time, not surprised.

When I don't say anything right away, I hear him chuckle. A low, humorless sound. "I know," he says, shaking his head. "It's bloody stupid."

But it's not. It's not stupid at all. It's exactly the thought I'd had earlier, the one I'd kept to myself. I hadn't wanted to say it out loud, wasn't ready to admit that that's what it was.

Probably for the same reason Spike resisted telling me, too.

But he's said it now. Been the first one to say it.

There's no point in trying to deny it now.

"No," I whisper, dropping my eyes away from his back, looking down at the ground. "It isn't."

He turns around then, leaning slightly forward. I can feel his eyes on me.

"Did you?" He asks, crossing to me again. His hand is on my chin again, drawing my face up so I have no choice but to look into his eyes.

Those fierce, burning eyes that manage to steal the breath from my lungs in this moment in a way they never have before.

Like everything that's hanging in the balance between us might be answered, solved, with the response that I'm about to give.

No matter which response that is.

Do I admit it, further changing everything, the set dynamic between us and say yes? Do I lie and sweep it under the rug, pretend like the moment between us tonight hadn't mattered and say no?

I stare up at him helplessly, my mouth opening to respond, snapping shut. Once, twice. Three times before I finally manage to force the words out.

"I don't know why."

Spike's lips quirk a little at the corners, like he wants to smile but won't let himself. He nods, my chin still gently cupped between his thumb and index finger.

"Guess that's a question for another day, yeah?" He asks, tilting his head to the side. There's a softness in his features, in the lines around his eyes.

It's incredible to me, how expressive his expressions are, how much I can tell he's feeling, conveyed with one simple look. The vampire of a thousand faces, I think wryly, watching him.

He studies my face for a moment before finally dropping his hand.

And then he notices the scarf around my neck.

The muscles in my shoulders tense up as his eyes narrow, focusing in on the knot I've tied, the careful way I've draped the fabric over his mark.

I brace myself for the whiplash I'll get when his mood inevitably shifts, anticipating him being frustrated, angry even, that I'd cover the mark up.

Whether it's rational or not.

But if there's one thing I'm quickly, very quickly, learning about Spike?

He's anything but predictable.

It's one of the things that makes him so dangerous.

"'S pretty," he says softly, shifting his eyes slowly from the pulse point of my throat back up to my eyes. He reaches out and places one finger tip against my neck, sliding is along the edge of the scarf, his eyes still locked on mine. "But I think I prefer it bare."

It's funny. The touch of his hand, the words that he's saying, it could all be overtly sensual. The way so much of what Spike does, the things he says, manage to be.

But it's not the way it comes off to me now.

It still just seems quiet, the same tender edge to his voice that had been there before. Like it's a simple, honest statement.

And it spins me all the more because of that.

We seem to have a similar reaction. We step apart from each other at the same time, his hand dropping to his side, my arms coming up to wrap around my waist.

I drop my eyes down to the ground, and Spike clears his throat.

There's a quite, awkward tension seeping in between us now. Like neither of us know what to do, where we're supposed to go from here.

Still don't know what all this is supposed to mean, for either of us.

After a minute or so, I look back up at him.

"I should…" he gestures with a tilt of his head, back toward the the door to the backyard.

Go. He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't have to. Even if I couldn't sort of feel him wanting to leave, I'd know by the drawn expression on his face.

I blink at him.

"Okay," I say, even though it isn't what I'm thinking.

I wish I knew what I was thinking. I'm looking at the peroxided vamp in front of me and I don't want him to go, but I'm not sure I want him to stay, either.

I see those same thoughts reflected at me in his eyes.

And then he steps toward me, halfway reaching for me. But he pulls his hands back before they even touch me, like he's suddenly thought better of it.

He turns his back on me, winding his way back around the island and to the stool where he'd dropped his duster earlier. I watch him pick it up, shrug it on, flip the collar up the way I've just recently noticed he does.

He reaches for the doorknob and I stop him, one more time, with the soft call of his name. I see his shoulders heave, like he's just exhaled a deep breath, and he glances over at me again.

His eyes are dark.

"Will you, uh," I wince, closing my eyes so I can get the sentence out before I can second guess myself, "will you…come back?" I open them again.

His expression is shadowed, but I think I can see something that looks a little like shock there.

I clear my throat, feeling intensely awkward, then add, "Tomorrow night, I mean."

Spike thinks about it for a long time. From where I'm standing across the room, I can see it all so plainly on his face. Some internal struggle, a battle he's waging in his head.

He doesn't want to be here. Doesn't want to feel drawn to me, connected to me this way. And I can feel that, the tension, the tiny war that's raging inside him.

It's hard for him. Possibly harder for him than it is for me. But he's here anyway, for whatever reason.

And I selfishly don't care.

Finally, he exhales through his nose and gives me one short, small nod.

And then he's gone.

It's only after he's left, shutting the door softly behind him, that I realized I haven't asked him about the nightmares.

I stare at the door and make a mental note to ask him tomorrow.

I eventually fall asleep. I'm not sure how I manage it, sitting upright on the sofa in the living room, my head thrown back against the top of the cushion behind me.

I'd ended up opting not to sleep in my own bed last night, for a couple different reasons.

The biggest one being that I wasn't sure I'd be able to sleep in that bed again without Spike being there with me, and I didn't particularly want to test that theory.

It's the sunlight filtering in through the bay window now that wakes me up. I can tell by the color of the rays, how golden they are, that it's already late into the morning. Panicked, I jump to my feet, only noticing at that moment that someone had draped the woven afghan over me sometimes while I'd been sleeping.

And then I smell it. Something wafting toward me, coming from the kitchen. My first reaction is to jump over the puddle of the blanket at my feet, stumbling a little in my hurry to get to the kitchen, to stop whatever it is that's burning.

I only realize when I've reach the open kitchen door that there isn't actually anything burning.

It just smells like something is.

And Dawn's standing in the kitchen, over the stove, a spatula in one hand and a very concerned look on her face as she stares down into the pan in front of her.

She looks up when she notices me standing in the doorway.

"Oh good," she says quickly, looking relieved, "you're awake." She shifts her eyes back toward the pan, frowning. "I think I messed this up."

But I'm not really hearing her, too busy looking around the room, looking for a sign that someone else is wrong.

I'm always expecting something to be wrong.

"Where's Mom?" I ask, the slight edge of panic creeping into my voice when I see what time it is. Almost 11:30.

Dawn rolls her eyes at me. "She's upstairs, resting," she says it like it should be obvious. "Can you please come here and help me?"

My shoulders relax a little.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" I ask, stepping into the kitchen, coming to stand beside her. I look over her shoulder.

The pan has a thick layer of eggs, or what are supposed to be eggs, sizzling and doing sort of a weird bubbly thing that I don't think eggs are supposed to do.

I wrinkle my nose up, noticing the giant mess of egg shells, an empty orange juice container and far too many mixing bowls that adorn the counter to the left of the stove.

I turn back to Dawn.

"Before you decided to destroy Mom's kitchen."

She sighs, handing me the spatula and moving out of the way. "I was just trying to do something, nice. I thought you'd rather get some sleep."

It's my turn to roll my eyes.

"Oh, boy," I say, stepping into her place, putting the metal part of the utensil down into the thick, bubbling goop. "Not you, too."

There are little black pieces of something floating amongst the yellow.

I make a little whining sound, the corners of my lips curling up into a smile that's half amused, half disgusted. I look at Dawn. "I don't think I can salvage this."

Beside me, my little sister huffs, looking disappointed.

I give her an apologetic smile and flip the stove off, pulling the frying pan off the burner and setting it to the side. I drop the spatula handle, and the metal part sticks in the "eggs", letting the handle stand straight up.

We both stare at the mess for a moment.

Then Dawn starts to laugh.

I start to laugh, too.

"I guess we could've used one of those non-sticky ones, after all," she giggles, leaning back against the counter behind her.

I grin at her, the complete irony of the situation not lost on me at all.

The Home Shopping Network, the incident in the kitchen last night with Mom. This debacle this morning.

If I take a step back from it and view it all under the big picture, it honestly is a little bit funny.

"Maybe I should have let you have the credit card," I say, folding my arms over my chest.

There's a little pause as our laughter trails off, the light heartedness of the moment passing too quickly for me.

But reality waits for no Slayer, and the weight of today, of tomorrow, comes crashing onto my shoulders.

I don't want Dawn to see it.

"Here," I say, reaching up and unclipping my hair, letting it fall down around my shoulders. "Why don't you…clean this up." I gesture to the mess behind her. "And I'll run down to the Espresso Pump and grab something less…" I look at the sticky pan, the spatula, and raise an eyebrow, "rubbery for breakfast."

Dawn agrees, and I tell her I'm just going to jump in the shower really quick before heading out. This is the how every many-ith night in too many nights that I've slept in my clothes, and it's starting to make me feel majorly icky.

But since it's already 11:30, I decide to skip the shower for now. I head for Mom's room once I've grabbed my bag out of my own room, spending as little time in there as possible, quickly checking in on her and saying good morning.

She seems better today. Still tired, groggy, but more like herself. More like she had been yesterday morning before the afternoon had taken a turn for the worse. When I look at her right now, I see my mom.

It lessens the little panic knot in my stomach even more.

I tell her where I'm going, ask her what she'd like, give her a quick kiss on the forehead and race back down the stairs.

"Dawn," I call out, digging through my purse as I head for the front door, making sure I have what I need. "I'll be back in about 20 minutes. Will you give Mom her pill at noon?"

I stop dead in my tracks when I look up and Dawn's suddenly standing at the entrance to the dining room on my left, looking at me with a weird, quizzical expression on her face.

She's holding something in her hand.

It's a silver lighter.

Spike's silver lighter.

"Is this yours?" Dawn asks, holding it out to me. "I found it on the floor by the sink when I was cleaning."

"No," I say softly, stepping toward her and plucking the lighter out of her hand. I stare at is as I answer her. "It isn't mine."

I hold it in my hand, flipping it open and watching the little flame spring up when I strike down on the side.

"Who's is it?" She asks me, drawing my eyes back to her.

Who's lighter is it. It isn't a complicated question, not particular difficult. But for the way it's making the anxious little butterflies beat their wings in my gut, it might as well be.

Like the million dollar question on that awful TV gameshow, with that Regis guy.

Who's had way too much plastic surgery for a man.

If I tell Dawn the truth, I'll be admitting something. What, exactly what, I'm not sure.

That Spike was in our house.

That he was in our house, and I didn't mind. Not only that, but I might as well have invited him here myself.

It would be the first time I've admitted, or even hinted at anything like that to anyone other than myself.

Even I'm still feeling a little shaky about it.

Or maybe I'm just thinking it will be admitting something, because I'm trying to come up with a reason not to tell her. Trying to find an excuse to keep it to myself.

Whether that's because I'm not ready for people to know there's something going on, or if it's because I almost like the idea of keeping it, keeping him, to myself…I don't know.

That's a little too much self-reflection for 11:45 in the morning.

I look at Dawn, who's staring back at me with both eyebrows raised high. Expecting a response.

I take a deep breath in and exhale slowly through my nose.

"It's Spike's," I say finally, flipping the lighter closed and stuffing it into the pocket of my jeans before turning and heading out the door.

I sit outside on the back porch steps, looking out into the dark yard. Watching the wind shake the limbs of the trees, the gentle sway of the blades of grass.

Thinking.

Mom and Dawn have both been in bed for hours. I'd told them both they needed to get to bed early tonight, that we have an early morning tomorrow. Mom has to be back at the hospital by 6:00 a.m. so the doctor's can prep her for surgery.

We'd talked about it just briefly this evening, before I'd ordered a pizza for Dawn and myself. Mom hadn't had much of an appetite all day. She'd blamed it on the medication, but I got the feeling that part of it might have been nerves.

She'd also ended up sleeping for most of the day today, too, which I figured was probably for the best. Better to be healed up, well rested than feeling worn down right before somebody puts you under and cuts into your brain.

I'd still felt anxious, overwhelmed for most of the day today. But there hadn't been any incidents like the ones from the day before, really. Except one, itty bitty tiny one where Mom had momentarily forgotten that she wasn't at the art gallery, and had asked Dawn to bring her in the shipment orders for the new Still Life exhibit.

It had been tense for just a moment, but passed quickly. Nothing at all as awful as last night.

Dawn never did ask me why Spike's lighter was in our kitchen. I could see that she wanted to, that the words were on the tip of her tongue several times, but she never did.

I don't know why.

I still don't know whether I feel grateful or disappointed.

And now I'm waiting outside for him. For Spike.

I'd known that's what I was doing when I'd come out here tonight, after giving Mom her evening medication and watching a little TV with Dawn. I'd come straight here, right to this middle porch step.

The same one I'd sat on that first night. There'd been a lot of firsts that night, I'm not sure exactly which first I'm referencing when I call it that in my head.

Maybe it doesn't matter.

I sit on the step, the wood cold beneath me, leeching through the cotton of the sweat pants I'm wearing. A small breeze picks up, chilly for California, and I wrap my jacket more tightly around me.

There's no moon tonight.

I kind of like it. It makes the stars seem brighter, easier to see. It makes everything feel more quiet. More still, despite the breeze.

I feel Spike a few minutes before I see him. When he steps through the wooden gate, comes striding down the little path toward me he doesn't look for one second like he's surprised to see me waiting for him.

Similarly, I'm not surprised to see the mark over his eye, the swelling that's already starting to show all along his cheek. I'd had a feeling earlier tonight, not long after sunrise while Dawn and I were eating pizza on Mom's bed, that something had happened.

It was just a faint nagging, but the same knowing feeling that I recognized instantly, the same it's been every other time before. Strong enough to stop me mid-bite, a lighting quick flash of what I'm tempted to call concern.

And seeing him now only confirms it.

We stare at each other for a moment, and then I ask, "What happened?"

His lips curve into a smirk, and his eyebrow shoots up. "You have to ask?"

No. I don't.

I take a deep breath in and exhale slowly, tilting my chin up and turning my eyes up to the sky.

"Humor me."

Spike suddenly drops down onto the step beside me, leaning forward so that his forearms are braced against his thighs.

I hadn't even heard him move.

I keep my eyes up, facing what I'm pretty sure is the Big Dipper.

Or maybe it's the Little Dipper.

Is there that much of a difference?

"Cleaned out a nest," he says, and I whip my head toward him, eyes wide.

His voice is so light, casual. Like he slays entire nests of vampires every day.

I'd known something had gone down, but I'm still not prepared for this.

"In Restfield?" I ask, angling my body toward him.

He shifts his eyes slowly over to mine, and from my position it's easier for me to see the damage. There's a cut above his right eye, the swelling taking on a slightly more purplish tinge this close up.

"No," he says deliberately, the single word carrying with it a kind of weight that tells me several things at once.

He'd been patrolling again.

He'd been patrolling in cemeteries other than his own.

And he doesn't want to talk about it.

So even though I want to ask, want to press him for more information, I don't.

Because I think I know why he did it.

"You left this here last night," I say instead, digging into the pocket of my jacket and holding out the silver lighter to him.

He stares at it for a moment, held lightly in between my fingers, before he reaches for it.

When he takes it from me, his hand stays in contact with mine maybe a half second longer than it needs to. Our eyes meet, something unspoken but meaningful passing between us.

But then he pulls his hand away and the moment is gone.

I watch him as he digs around in his pocket, pulling out a slightly worn package of cigarettes and shaking one out into his hand. He places one end between his lips, flipping the lighter open and and inhaling deeply until the opposite end ignites and sparks.

I stare at the glowing tip, watching it illuminate the sharp angles of his face as he flips the lighter closed again.

"You seem to be doin' better tonight," he murmurs around the cigarette, placing the lighter in his duster pocket.

I nod, turning away from him to look back into the yard. "Better day."

Beside me, Spike takes a long drag off his cigarette, exhaling a swirling stream of smoke into the night air.

I think about how much I used to hate the smell of cigarettes because they reminded me of Angelus. Now, I catch myself inhaling deeply. The smoke is heady and strong, and just the smallest bit minty.

I hadn't noticed before.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him reach up and pull the cigarette from between his lips. "Surgery tomorrow, then?"

"Yep." I pop the P.

Spike chuckles.

Spike chuckles.

And then I remember what I'd wanted to make sure I ask him tonight.

"What were your nightmares about?" I ask him suddenly, turning toward him, fixing him with a hard look.

I think I'd halfway hoped to startle him, catch him off guard.

To his credit, he looks completely unfazed. He leans back, stretching out and propping both elbows up on the step behind him, extending one lean leg down so his foot is flat on the ground. He keeps the other leg, the one farthest from me, bent.

And whether or not the pose is meant to be provocative, it manages to be.

He looks up at me through his lashes, head slightly cocked to the side. The cigarette is wedged between his index and middle fingers of the his right hand, a slow curl of smoke twisting and wafting up toward me.

"Was wonderin' when you might ask me that," He says, voice soft. Not quite smug, but not not smug, either.

I frown at him. "You were the one who told me to."

He nods, lifting the cigarette to his lips. "So I did." He takes a drag, turns his head away to exhale, then back to me again. "Took you longer than I expected, is all."

"Well?" I prompt him, shifting over on the porch step so I can angle my body more completely toward him. It's easier to see his face this way.

Easier to ignore other parts, too.

Spike sighs, propping the arm with the hand on the cigarette back on the step again. His lips purse slightly as he turns away from me, focusing his eyes somewhere else, somewhere distant.

"You," he says, his voice low, very quiet.

You.

Me.

Like that's some big secret? I've known that from the first moment he'd mentioned having the nightmares in the first place.

What's more, he knows I know that, at least that, because he'd all but told me with that dead giveaway of a facial expression the other night.

That's why he wanted me to ask? So he could tell me, definitively, what I'd already figured out?

I roll my eyes. "I already knew that."

"Killing you."

My eyes snap back to his face. He's still staring straight ahead, smoking cigarette glowing a dim reddish gold, casting an eery color across the leather of his duster.

For a moment, I'm certain I haven't heard him right.

So I swallow, fighting the dryness that's suddenly coated my throat, and ask "What?"

"I dreamed of killing you," he answers me, his voice sounding very far away. "For years."

He still isn't looking at me, and I find myself suddenly at a loss for words. And I'm frozen to the spot, mesmerized by the swirling cigarette smoke, the low, deep timbre of his voice as he continues. "After we first met, after every failed attempt, I'd have another dream about killing you." He lifts the cigarette up like he's about to take a drag, but doesn't. He turns his eyes to it, watching the glowing tip. "When these first started, I thought that was all it was."

And then his eyes shift toward mine, and even in the darkness, in the complete absence of a moon, his eyes manage to reflect some source of light. Gleaming, swirling with the tiniest hint of gold.

"But these were…different, you know? Stronger. Like they were real. And I'd have them every day, always exactly the bloody same."

I watch his lips quirk up, the faintest hint of a smirk there.

"Didn't mind at first, you know. You're the Slayer, I'm a vampire." He shrugs, tilting his head to the side. "Seemed as natural as anythin' else."

I can hear it in his voice. How much he wants this part to still be true, to still not mind. To have dreams about killing me and not consider them nightmares.

I can also hear the "but" coming.

And as he looks at me, really looks at me, eyes searching mine, I see the smirk fall from his face.

"But then, things…changed." He turns his eyes away from me again, looking down to the porch step and stubbing the half smoked cigarette out on the wood. "Started wakin' up in a panic, shoutin'. Bloody hell, one mornin' I woke up calling your bloody name." Then he pauses, barks a short, harsh laugh. "Actually, that got Harmony to piss off." He glances toward me, a wicked glint in his eye. "So maybe I owe you one."

I think he means it as a joke, but there's a cold, bitter edge to his voice when he says it that doesn't settle well in my stomach.

I'd had dreams about kissing him.

He'd had dreams about killing me.

Two very, very different…very different things.

My head starts to spin a little, the chill from the breeze cooling the little sheen of sweat I hadn't noticed had started to bead up along my hair line.

"Oh," I breathe, turning away from him, getting up to my feet. I finish taking the steps down to the grass, walking a little ways out into the yard.

I can feel the blades of grass, a little sharp and cold against my bare feet.

But it's good. It grounds me, makes the flush on my skin not feel so hot.

Behind me, I hear shifting sounds, leather on wood, and know Spike's just gotten to his feet, too.

"What's wrong?" He asks, and I think it's the fact that he honestly sounds confused that makes me do it.

I laugh. I laugh out loud, a shrill, strange sound that doesn't sound like it actually comes from me.

What's wrong.

What's wrong?

I whip around to face him, throwing my arms up in the air.

"My dreams were about kissing you, Spike," I whisper-shout, as loud as I dare, still trying to keep a grip on my volume so as not to wake anyone else up.

I watch his eyebrows shoot up, eyes widening.

In my panic, I'd completely forgotten that I'd never told him exactly what my dreams were about. I think I assumed he must have known, or at least had some idea, since he'd known about the bite from my dream.

My sex dream.

I don't think I'd actually stopped to consider that he might not have known.

He's staring at me now, on his feet, brow furrowed.

I stare back at him, shaking my head.

"I had dream about kissing you," I repeat slowly, much softer, dropping my eyes to the ground. I shiver, thinking about everything he's told me. "Your dreams were about killing me."

I cross my arms tightly over my chest, feeling the tips of my fingers grow cold.

The knowledge shouldn't surprise me. It most certainly shouldn't hurt me.

But it does, and my cheeks are hot with embarrassment.

And I kind of hate him, just a little bit, for it.

I close my eyes, shake my head and start moving forward, making my way back toward the stairs with the intention of pushing past him, escaping back into the house.

Spike's in front of me before I can barely make it two full steps, blocking my path.

"Now, hold on a bloody second," he says, squaring his shoulders.

I sigh, looking up at him, opening my mouth to tell him to move out of my way, and freeze.

He has that look on his face. In his eyes. The one that sends a tingle down my spine that's completely unrelated to what he is.

The one no evil, soulless creature has any right to. Frustrated, angry, warm.

Tender.

His eyes burn into me, searching mine for what feels like a very long time, before he finally takes a step toward me and closes the last bit of a gap between us.

"Nightmares, Slayer," he says earnestly, reaching forward and fingering a strand of my hair. I think he's going to twist it up in his fingers like he seems to like to do so much.

But he surprises me by reaching forward tucking it behind my ear instead, the pad of his thumb barely brushing against the tender skin below it.

His eyes are glued to mine.

"I had nightmares about killing you."

And he says it with so much weight, so much conviction. Like it's the most important thing he's ever said to me.

Which, I realize, it actually might be.

It's not a little thing. Not insignificant, what Spike's chosen to call them. He'd had dream about killing me, and they'd bothered him. Bothered him so much, so deeply, that they'd woken him up in a panic.

And even if he doesn't understand it, doesn't even like that's it happened, he's standing in front of me admitting that it has. Standing in front of me in my backyard, telling me what it is I wanted to know.

What I think he'd secretly, or maybe not so secretly, wanted to tell me anyway.

Here, because I asked him to be.

I side step around him, stopping when I'm standing shoulder to shoulder with him. Him, facing the open yard, me facing the back door.

"Do you want to come in?" I ask softly, turning my head to the side so my eyes are in line with the curve of his shoulder, focused on it. "Just…sit with me." I turn my eyes up toward his to find him already looking down at me. I study his face, gaze trailing from his eyes, down over his nose to his lips, and back up again. "For a little while."

If I couldn't already feel his answer, already know what he was going to say, the impassive expression covering his features might be enough to concern me.

But I can, and I do.

So when he finally nods, murmurs a very softly spoken "Sure, pet", I'm not surprised.

It isn't until we reach the back door and I'm turning the knob, pushing it open so we can go inside, that I'm surprised.

For the second night in a row, Spike does something I don't expect when I feel his hand slip inside of mine.

I turn around, eyes immediately shooting to his.

His hold is soft, hesitant at first. Like he's testing it out to see how it feels, almost more for his benefit than mine.

But he isn't looking at me. His eyes are down, riveted on his fingers entwined with mine, on his black nail polish against the tanned skin of my hand.

Mesmerized.

"You're warm," he says quietly, finally turning his eyes back up to mine.

"You're cold," I murmur back.

Spike cocks his head to the side, the beginnings of a smile ghosting one side of his mouth as he leans a little closer to me and whispers, "I guess that works out nicely, then."


	20. Chapter 20

"Can I ask you a question?" I whisper, breaking the silence that's wrapped itself around us since first walking into the house. We're sitting on the sofa in the dark living room, side by side. Not touching.

He'd let go of my hand once we'd gotten here, watching me carefully through hooded eyes as I'd dropped down onto the cushions. Not unsure exactly, but hesitant enough that I'd begin to wonder if I'd read the situation wrong, if asking him to come inside, sit with me, was crossing a line he wasn't ready for.

I'd seen it cross his face, though. When he'd made the decision. Shrugging off his duster like he had the night before, laying it across the sofa's armrest, never taking his eyes off mine. Then he'd sat down next to me, leaning back just a little ways so our shoulders aren't touching, his hand on the cushion just an inch or so away from mine.

I'd had to fight the urge to reach behind me and entwine my fingers with his again.

And then the silence.

The not all that uncomfortable silence that I've just broken.

Spike looks at me, the corner of his lips quirking up, eyebrow raised. "You're askin' now?"

I blink at him, frowning.

I guess I do usually just sort of...demand answers from him. That, or punch him in the nose until he tells me what I want to know.

My stomach churns a little and I sit back, leaning my shoulder into the sofa. I watch his eyebrow slowly come down, the smirk ghosting his mouth turn less wry, softer.

Spike clears his throat, turning his body toward mine, propping his elbow up on the armrest. He drops his eyes down away from mine and inhales.

"I s'pose so," he murmurs, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he raises his eyes back to mine.

I frown at him, brow furrowing. He seems frustrated now, but I'm not sure why. Can't put my finger on it.

Maybe he already knows what I'm about to ask.

"Did you come here tonight because you…" I look away from him, reaching a hand up and tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, " _wanted_ to." I drag my eyes back to his. "Or because I _asked_ you to."

And as I look at him now, I don't know what I want the answer to be. Don't even know why I've bothered to ask him in the first place. Don't know what difference it makes.

Except maybe all of it.

Because if he came here tonight because I asked him to, that means something. It means something about the connection between us, if my asking him to come here could _make_ him somehow. Like that weird feeling I'd had last night, the way I'd felt when I'd said his name. The way it had sounded like a command, had kept him from leaving.

A compulsion, maybe. Something that can be explained away by whatever's going on between us.

I stare at him, trying to read the expression on his face, the look in his eyes.

 _And if he came here tonight because he wanted to_.

Well...that means something entirely different.

Spike leans toward me slightly, azure eyes narrowing as he scans my face.

"I dunno," he answers simply after a moment. And then he smirks, tilting his head to the side. "Bit of both, maybe."

Its an answer, and an honest one. But it doesn't help me. I still don't know what it was I'd _wanted_ to hear, what would have been easier. If easier is really better.

And I don't know what to _say_.

So I just nod, dragging my gaze away from his and over, focusing on a spot on the carpet beneath the coffee table in front of us.

There's a beat, a long pause, and then I hear him shift subtly beside me.

"Can I ask you a question?"

I turn back to face him, taking a deep breath.

He doesn't usually ask, either.

"Sure," I murmur, reaching up and grabbing my hair in my hands, twisting it, pulling it all over my shoulder.

Spike leans toward me, the hand on the cushion beside me inching closer to my knee. The tips of his fingers press lightly into the soft fabric of my pants, and every inch of me is hyper aware of his presence beside mine.

"Why did you ask me to come?" He asks, his voice doing that soft, honeyed thing it does sometimes that makes my throat run dry. He's looking at me through his lashes, his head still cocked to the side.

I stare at him, swallowing.

"You know why."

His eyes narrow, lips curving into a full fledged smirk. He leans forward, dropping his voice lower. "Humor me."

I frown at him.

"I...don't know."

His lips twitch. "Mmhm."

"Spike,"I groan, shifting away from him.

I'm stopped when he reaches out suddenly, covering my hand with his. I drop my eyes down, staring at his chipped polish and feeling this little electric pulse shooting up my arm.

Its the first time he's touched me since we've been sitting here.

"I seem to remember a certain Slayer not liking that answer much," he says, exerting the tiniest pressure on my hand, drawing my eyes up to his. And it's the earnestness on his face, the way he's staring at me, that makes me say it.

"You helped," I whisper, the words thick on my tongue. "Last night, you being here…" I look down at our hands again, marveling at the marble color of his skin against mine. "It helped. Me."

"So you asked me to come...because I helped."

I whip my gaze back to his, see his wary expression, his raised eyebrows.

"Yes," I say immediately. Then, frowning, "No." Then, quickly, "I mean...God, I don't know." I drop my head into my free hand, dragging my fingers up and through my hair, pulling it back off my face. I close my eyes, shaking my head. "I'm not thinking straight."

In front of me, even though my eyes are closed, I can _feel_ him smirking at me. Appreciating the irony, I'm sure.

It isn't lost on me, either.

"Must be goin' around," he teases, and I force myself to open my eyes again.

Spike _is_ smirking at me, just like I'd pictured in my head. Except...not. The curve of his lips is wicked, that same toe-curling, delicious, infuriating expression that's so signature on him. The same smirk I've seen a million times before.

But his eyes are warm.

And I think it's the warmth in his eyes that makes me ask, "You said you felt like I _needed_ you here last night?"

Spike shifts back a little, brow furrowing. "I did."

I nod, turning my eyes back down to our hands. Slowly, deliberately, I turn my hand around so that my palm is facing upwards, flat against his. The pulsing energy between us feels like it grows stronger the longer I stare, and finally, it's my turn to entwine my fingers with his.

I feel him stiffen in front of me, and I turn to look back up at his face. The softness in his expression makes the world fall out from beneath me.

"I-I think I wanted you here tonight."

I'm not sure anyone's ever looked at me the way he is right now.

I don't know what that means.

But the moment passes, and whatever it was I'd just seen in his eyes is gone before I've really had a chance to get a grasp on it, replaced by the bright, mischievous gleam he so often has there instead.

"Wanted me, did you?" He purrs, waggling his eyebrows. Cutting the tension that's cropped up between us, making my cheeks flush hot with what feels a lot like embarrassment.

I look away from him, try to untangle my hand from his. I start to pull it back toward my lap but Spike stops me, curling his fingers more tightly around mine, pinning my hand down into the sofa cushion.

He leans toward me, and when I look back into his face his eyes are stormy.

It's that same look, the same indecision I'd seen there the night before. The internal battle, everything he wants, everything he doesn't, the things I can see him fighting against.

The same things I think I might have stopped fighting the moment I admitted to wanting him here.

"Look, I…" he begins to say, then trails off, the muscle clenching in his jaw. He closes his eyes, inhales deeply, shakes his head.

I want to say something, but I don't know what. So instead I squeeze his hand.

I'm not sure what I think it's going to do, what difference I think it'll make. If any.

But when his lashes flutter open and he looks at me again, the raging in his eyes has quieted.

There's a pause as we stare at each other.

Then he exhales through his nose, asking"Why so worried about this surgery, then?"

So whatever it is that's just happened, we aren't talking about it anymore.

 _Probably for the best._

"Umm," I mutter, stammering, racking my brain for the most general answer I can give. Not wanting to get too deeply into it. Not wanting to be so vulnerable again. "Just..worried that something will go wrong." I do untangle my hand from his now, and he lets me, allowing me to bring my hand up and cup the back of my neck. "I mean, the surgeons have been...great." I frown, considering yesterday with Dr Kriegel. "I guess. But they're still just _people_ , you know?" I look at him, shrugging. Feeling a little silly. "Really, way smart people. But they can still make mistakes."

Spike shifts backward on the sofa, pressing his back into the cushions and tilting his head to the side. He narrows his eyes, watching me through thick lashes, a crease of concern drawn over his brow. He opens his mouth like he's about to say something, then shuts it again.

Then he shifts again, leaning slightly toward me.

"What happened yesterday, luv?"

 _Luv._

The word sends another little shiver down my back.

I've heard him say it, heard him call me it before. Know in the back of my mind that it's just the way he talks, a turn of phrase. It doesn't mean anything.

But he's looking at me with such openness, brow creased in what has to be concern. At the very least a very good representation of it. And his hand is so smooth, so soft where he's just barely resting it on top of mine, and I start to tell him.

"The, uh...the tumor?" I begin, looking at him. Spike nods, his brows still drawn together. I sigh, continuing on. "I guess, where it is...sometimes it presses on something in her brain, and she has these, these moments…" I gesture with my free hand, searching for the word. "Flashes…" trail off again, staring cross the sofa at him, searching his open eyes with mine. "She looked at me last night like she didn't even know me."

"And?" He prompts, and I have no idea exactly how he'd known there was an "and" involved.

I blink at him. "A-and she said some...things."

"I see," he says, shifting a little so his body is angled more fully toward mine. "Your mum...she wasn't herself, yeah?" His eyes are bright, swirling with some different emotion I haven't seen before. Pain, maybe? They're glued to mine. "She didn't mean it."

I frown.

"I know that," I tell him, the tiniest defensive tone creeping into my voice. "That isn't...it's not _what_ she said that upset me, really."

Spike nods slowly, understanding dawning in his eyes. "It's why she said it."

"And an industrial sized load of other things," I mutter, bringing my hands up, pulling them slowly down over my face.

"Such as?" He prompts me again.

I shake my head, not wanting to go there. Not wanting a repeat performance from the kitchen scene last night. "Nothing," I say quickly, dragging my hand through my hair again.

He answers me with two raised eyebrows.

I frown at him. "I'm _fine_."

"Slayer." He says.

"Spike." I say back.

The muscle in his jaw ticks, his eyes narrowing on me.

"You don't always have to be so _bloody_ difficult, you know," he says, his voice gravelly, low. I can see the effort it's taking for him to control his voice. Can feel the frustration rolling off him in waves, feeding into my own. Angry that he's pressing me, trying to get me to talk about something I don't want to talk about.

I hadn't asked him to come in here and _talk_ to me. I'd asked him to come in and _sit_.

"I'm not being _difficult_ ," I hiss, narrowing my own eyes. "I'm just-"

"You don't always have to be _strong_."

"Yes I _do_ ," I shout, suddenly jumping to my feet, staring down at him.

I realize how loud I've just been and immediately kick myself, closing my eyes, taking a deep breath in and exhaling through my nose.

"I do," I repeat, my voice strained, much quieter now. I shake my head and open my eyes. Spike is gazing up at me with wide eyes. "For _them_. For Mom a-and Dawn. Especially now."I turn my back on him, pacing a few feet away toward the opposite end of the living room. "They need me. They need me to handle things, and take _care_ of them. To be the one that knows what to do." I turn back around to face him, one arm folded across my waist, pointing back to my chest with my free hand. "I'm supposed to know what to do! Its what everyone expects from me...my family, my friends." I exhale a short, humorless laugh, turning my eyes to the ceiling. "God, even _Riley_." I start pacing again, moving back toward the sofa. "I'm the Slayer. I'm a _superhero_. I fight monsters and the forces of evil and save the world and I…" I trail off, the air leaving my lungs and my shoulders sagging forward as I stare ahead, focusing blindly on a blank space of wall. "I have to keep it all together."

And then Spike's on his feet, jumping in front of me with a sound that's part growl and part little, exasperated sound.

"Why?" He asks me harshly, reaching out, putting both his hands on my face and forcing me to look at him. "Bloody hell, why _you_ , Buffy?"

His voice is tense, very low. Frustrated. Like he doesn't understand.

 _And how could he?_

He's a _vampire_. A demon. Soulless, evil, dead. Everything I'm supposed to be against, the thing I was called to fight. He makes it so hard to remember what he is.

Because Spike is so...different. So emotional. Driven by impulses and instincts I feel like I can't begin to understand, but that I also feel are so similar to my own. Fiercely loyal, a little reckless, completely blinded in the face of desperation when it comes to helping those we love.

Spike struck a deal with me to save Drusilla. Even after the way it sounded like she treated him, he'd come to me. Offered a truce, helped me take out Angelus. Save the world.

And all without monetary incentives, or his brain being flash fried by government technology.

The skin across my cheeks flushes hot again, and I reach up and wrap my fingers around both his wrists, tugging his hands away from my face as I look at him.

"Because I was chosen," I remind him simply.

As though that explains everything. Because I think, for me, it does.

Spike apparently doesn't see it this way, though. He scoffs, turning slightly away from me, hands going to his hips.

"You were _chosen_ to slay demons," he all but growls, eyes flashing as he points a finger toward me.

Then he shakes his head, and I watch the hard lines on his face, around his eyes, soften again. He crosses the space between us and reaches for me again, ignoring my half-hearted protestation as he puts his palm flat against my cheek, sweeping the pad of his thumb over it.

"The rest of it is bollocks."

And something inside of me, the last little bit of self-control I'd been clinging to today, slips away. Like I've been given permission.

I sink back down onto the sofa, curling up into a ball, letting the words tumble passed my lips in a rush. Unwilling, unable to hold anything back.

Spike sits back down beside me, body angled toward mine, his eyes glued to my face as he listens quietly.

I tell him everything. Everything that happened at the hospital yesterday. More about the tumor, about where it is, the things it had made her do. Made her say. How I'd been hoping to use a healing spell but now I think that option's out, too. The way the doctor had made me feel so small, so incredibly incapable of taking care of Mom on my own. The incident in the kitchen.

How scared I am that if something goes wrong during surgery I'll never have my Mom back the way she was before, that she'll always look at me that way she had last night in the kitchen. Like she doesn't even know me.

I tell him _everything_ , putting all of it out there. Every fear, the deepest insecurities, all the "what if's" I'd buried deep down in my own head, tried to protect everyone else from. How unfair it all is.

How completely and totally _unprepared_ I feel to face tomorrow.

And throughout it all, Spike never says a word. Never interrupts, or asks a question, or demands anything of me at all. He lets me talk, and at the end of it, when I'm finally finished and my voice is hoarse and my eyes are burning and so, so tired, I lean toward him, resting my head against his shoulder.

He lets me do that, too.

I can feel his eyes on me, on the side of my face, as I blink my heavy eyelids. I wonder dimly what time it is, how much sleep I'll get if I walk Spike out now.

"You don't need to come," I say softly, letting my eyes stay shut for longer and longer with every blink. It's getting more difficult to open them each time.

And I can feel the question emanating from him, like a little vibration going through the tips of my fingers that are resting limply against his chest, though I can't tell exactly what it is. And even though he doesn't ask.

"To talk to Giles," I clarify sluggishly, taking a guess.

Beneath me, Spike's shoulder moves slightly when he adjusts his position on the sofa, leaning back further into the cushions.

Like he's getting comfortable.

"And why is that, now?" He asks, his voice low and directly beside my ear. His breath fans over my cheek, stirring the strands of hair there so they fall down over my face.

"Because," I mumble, bringing my hand up to cover my mouth, stifling the yawn that passes my lips before letting my hand drop back down to its spot on his chest. "I don't think I'm ready for you to be dust yet, either."

I wake up to a gentle tapping on my shoulder, opening my eyes slowly.

"Buffy," the voice cuts through the fog as I blink, bleary eyes trying to focus on the direction that it's come from. "Buffy, wake up."

The tapping becomes more insistent, harder. I make a little whimpering sound, turning my head to the side.

My eyes go wide when I realize I'm looking up into my little sister's face.

Panic seizes me instantly. The room is still dark, so it still has to be night. Or very, very early morning.

The morning of Mom's surgery.

"What's wrong?" I ask, pushing myself up quickly into a sitting position. My neck is aching and sore from the crick in it, the position I've slept in.

Dawn's looking at me with a knowing expression on her face, leaning back slightly on her heels and folding her arms over her chest. I stare back at her, confused.

"What?" I ask, frowning.

She raises an eyebrow at me.

And that's when I realize my hand, the one I used for leverage to push myself up, is pressed against Spike's chest. I focus on my hand a minute, putting two and two together. My brain is still a little muddled from sleep, but I'm waking up pretty quickly now.

That's why my neck hurts. My head had been on his shoulder.

I stare at my hand for a second longer before slowly turning my head up toward Spike's face. I blink at him. He's sitting directly beside me on the sofa in the exact same position he'd been before I must have fallen asleep. His eyes are open, looking down at me, a small smirk on his lips.

His eyebrow is raised in a similar manner to Dawn's.

I swallow against the lump in my throat.

"Umm," I murmur, clearing my throat, still looking at Spike. "W-what time is it?"

"5:30," Dawn says, bringing my attention back to her. She's still looking at me with this slightly smug, equally curious look on her face. "My alarm went off a little bit ago, and I went into your room..." She shifts her eyes over to Spike, looking down at my hand, the one that's still firmly pressed to the vampire's chest, then back over to me. "But you weren't there."

"Uh, yeah," I pull my hand off Spike's chest, sitting up straighter. I clear my throat again, running my other hand through my hair, pulling it off my face. I stare up at her, dimly registering that she's already fully dressed. "Sorry Dawnie," I drop my hair down again, feeling the weight of it against my shoulder. I shake my head. "I guess I lost track of time."

"It's okay," she says, a small smile on her lips as she looks back and forth between Spike and I. "Do you need to get ready?"

 _Do I need to get ready?_

It takes me a minute to register the question, realizing what she's asking me. If I need to get ready to take Mom to the hospital.

For her brain surgery.

I hadn't forgotten, but I haven't been actively thinking about it, either. With Spike being here, with what we'd talked about outside. Holding my hand. Letting me fall asleep against him.

I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger, looking down at my lap. I notice for the first time that it isn't a blanket covering my lap.

Spike's leather duster is draped over my legs. He must have put it over me after I'd fallen asleep. I glance back toward the vampire beside me, but he isn't looking at me anymore. Instead, his eyes are down, focused toward the coffee table in front of us. He has his hand up behind him, rubbing the back of his neck.

Like he feels as awkward as I do. Like we're two high schoolers that got caught doing something we weren't supposed to be.

 _I guess a little while had turned into all night._

And it's 5:30 already. Only 30 minutes before Mom has to be at the hospital for her surgery prep.

And, _oh God._

Oh, _God_ , Giles is going to be here literally any minute to pick us all up, take us there. I'd completely, completely, _totally_ forgot that I'd asked him yesterday if he could drive us. He'd called to check in on us, and I hadn't even thought twice about it.

Then again, I hadn't really thought about Spike spending the night, either.

A fresh wave of panic rushes through me, filling my chest, waking me up fully.

"Is Mom up?" I ask, folding the duster up and sort of gingerly handing it back to Spike. He takes it from me, our eyes meeting for just a moment before we each look away again.

I put my hands down on the sofa to push myself up, accidentally putting my right hand down on Spike's leg when I do. I jump to my feet, snatching my hand away so quickly you'd think that he'd burned me, whipping around to face Dawn.

"She's up," she says, looking at me like I've just sprouted two heads. "She was already ready to go when I went in there a couple minutes ago."

Of course she was. Because Giles will be here _any minute_. And I'm somehow the only one who _isn't_ ready to go, because I fell asleep on our living room sofa with my head on Spike's shoulder after the two of us talked about having dreams about killing and kissing each other and somehow, someway, almost admitting….what? I'm not sure.

I'm not ready to be sure.

I look at Spike, still sitting on the sofa, his duster spread across his lap where he'd placed it after I'd given it back earlier. He looks back up at me, eyes scanning my face, trying to read the expression there.

I wonder what all it is he sees.

"Giles," I tell him, dropping my voice down a little lower. "He's going to be here any minute."

I'm sure Dawn can still hear me, but I don't care. I'm too busy looking into his face, trying desperately to convey as much as I can with a single look. The way he always manages to do.

That I'm panicking, but it isn't about him being here. Isn't about Dawn finding us together.

That I'm worried about Giles seeing him here like this, but not for the reasons he's going to think.

That I'm trying to give him an out.

That he can get up and disappear out the back door now, before I let Giles in, and that he won't have to see him.

To admit to anyone other than Dawn and I that he's been here. All night.

With me.

He stares at me for a long, breathless moment. His eyes are fixed on mine, and I'm hoping he can see it all there. Everything I'm thinking. Or if he can't see it, maybe he can sense it. The moment drags on, growing tense as we stare at each other, before he finally nods and gets to his feet. I watch him as he slips it on, doing the collar flippy thing he does. His eyes move from mine over to Dawn, who's still standing beside me and managing to look both slightly confused and cat-that-ate-the-canaryish all at the same time.

"See you 'round, Niblet," Spike says, smiling wryly at her, before turning his azure eyes back to me. He nods again, eyes narrowing just a little. "Buffy."

He turns on his heel and walks out of the living room, duster swirling around his legs as he moves through the foyer, turning the corner and disappearing into the kitchen.

Dawn involuntarily squeezes my hand, hard, causing me to turn toward her, eyebrow raised.

Oh, I have _so_ much explaining to do.

"What?" I ask, frowning at her.

She gives me a look that no fourteen year old has any right to give. Rolling her eyes like it should be so obvious, mouth up in a smile that says to me _you're not fooling anyone_.

I hadn't even realized I was trying to fool anyone.

"I'll get the door when Giles gets here," she tells me meaningfully, letting go of my hand, giving me one last knowing look before dropping my hand and stepping around me, moving to drop down onto the sofa. Her arms are still folded across her chest.

I don't give myself time to stop and think about what exactly Dawn thinks she knows, what she thinks she might have seen out in the living room. I just start moving. Out into the foyer, through the dining room and over into the kitchen, fully expecting to have to chase after him, that he'll already be out the door and through the backyard by the time I get there.

He isn't.

He's standing right there in front of me, arms folded across his chest, leaning against the back door. Looking for all the world like he's been waiting for me for hours, not seconds.

I stop short, skidding to a halt, listening to Dawn and Giles, their voices low as they filter to us through the entryway.

"I thought you were leaving," I murmur softly, searching his face.

"Yeah, well," he murmurs back, equally soft, narrowing his eyes in the direction of the front door. "I am."

"Look, do you...do you want me to come?"

"To the hospital?" I ask, blinking at him. Stunned.

"Well," he drops his eyes down to the ground, rolling his shoulders back. "Yeah."

"Umm," I stare at him, lost for words. "I mean, I don't…" I trail off, looking away from him, shaking my head. "I mean, it's going to be...daylight."

What I haven't said, what I'm really thinking, hangs in the air between us.

 _Everyone else is going to be there._

"Right." He nods, pushing himself off the door and unfolding his arms. "I'll just…"

"Spike," I say, stepping toward him. He stops, turning to look at me.

And I reach for him, not allowing myself too much time to think about it, laying my hands on either side of his face and leaning forward to press my lips to his.

It isn't a deep kiss. It isn't long, either. It's gentle and almost sweet and so, so different from any other kiss we've shared before now. Our lips are connected, slightly parted, and the kiss lasts just long enough for me to inhale his scent one last time before I pull away again.

His eyes are wide, indigo blue as they search mine. He blinks at me.

I keep my hands on his face as I whisper, "Thank you."

I don't know what I'm thanking him for.

Everything.

Last night. The night before. Ten minutes ago.

For showing up. Being here. Even if he didn't want to. For letting me be vulnerable when I didn't think anyone else would. Listening to me.

For not leaving.

For that look on his face he'd had last night. The one he has again now. The warm one, his eyes softening. Like he _sees_ me.

"Buffy," Dawn shouts suddenly, her voice just loud enough for me to hear it where I'm standing but not quite loud enough that it could give Mom a headache. "Giles is here!"

I drop my hands away from his face and step backwards, nodding at him as I turn to head back to the entry way.

But Spike grabs me before I can, his hands wrapping around my shoulders so he can turn me back around to face him.

"If you…" he whispers fiercely, trailing off, his thumbs pressing into my upper arms as he looks down at eyes flash, like he's struggling with the words again. He closes his eyes, opens them again. "If you _need_ me."

He doesn't finish the thought. Just leaves it open, and I don't know if it's because he knows I'll understand it anyway, or if he just doesn't want to say it.

There's still so much we have to figure out.

But I think I know, anyway. Can see it.

 _I'll be there._

I nod once to show him I've understood and he lets go of me, vanishing out the back door just as there's a knock at the front.

I sit on the edge of Mom's bed a couple hours later, watching as the nurse finishes the last of the pre-surgery stuff. I haven't really understood any of it, even though the nurse tried to walk us both through a lot of it as it happened.

I feel like my mind is somewhere else.

I watch as the nurse administers something through the IV in Mom's arm, and smiles at both of us, saying they'll be ready to take her to the OR in the next couple of minutes.

I barely hear her.

I'm too busy focusing on Mom. Studying the planes of her face, the curve of her lips, the way her eyes scrunch up and twinkle when she smiles, or laughs. I memorize the way she looks now, the color of her hair, the way it curls over her forehead.

I'd done my best to keep a smile on my face throughout the morning, but it had been so much harder than I thought it would be. Even if Mom hadn't been getting ready to go into surgery, it would have been a weird morning. Giles had fussed over all three of us, panicking that we'd be late because I still hadn't changed by the time he'd arrived. Dawn had given me these sly, secretive looks all the way over to the hospital. Mom had chatted idly about all kinds of average, mundane things. Talking about what she'll be needing Dawn and I to do around the house, what we'll need to get her from the grocery store once she's ready to come home after recovery, asking Giles about my Slaying, how much of my training I've missed out on.

Like everything is going to be just fine. Like no other possibilities exist.

Like nothing can possibly go wrong today.

All morning, my stomach's been twisted up in knots, tightening with each passing second.

Now, as I watch the nurse leave the room, I feel like my insides are actually trying to claw their way out. But I take a deep breath in, exhaling through my nose and willing the emptiness in my gut to stop squirming, at least for the next couple minutes.

"So," I begin, forcing a bright smile onto my face and covering her hand with mine. "I'm thinking...about a gallon of ice cream and between five and ten movies where Tom Cruise goes shirtless."

Mom smiles at me, shaking her head. "What?"

"Your first night home, tumor free," I explain lightly. "We have to celebrate somehow."

I watch as the brave smile, the one she's been wearing all morning and for most of the day yesterday, melts off her face. She pulls her hand out from beneath mine, reaching forward so she can touch my arm.

"Buffy, promise me," she says urgently, her eyes wide as they look into mine. Frightened. "If anything...happens." My stomach starts to rebel, rolling, a churning wave of nausea rising in the back of my throat as I watch her helplessly "If I don't come through this-"

 _No_.

No, no.

Everything in me wants to shout the word out loud, deny it, go back to earlier this morning when she'd been acting like that wasn't even a possibility. That there'd only be one way this day would go.

I'd felt tense, frustrated even, before in the car when no one was talking about it. Like I was the only one, the _only_ one thinking about the worst case scenario here. Not worrying about being dressed and ready or grocery lists or chores or school or anything other than the fact that surgeons are about to take my mom into an operating room and cut into her brain.

I'd been frustrated, and now I'd give anything to go back to that. To talk about how I'm going to make up for the training time I've missed with Giles, how I got the wrong brand of milk last time I went to the store, how Dawn has to get better about cleaning her room.

Because this, right now, is so much worse.

My throat goes dry as I look at Mom, blinking.

"Mom-" I start, but she cuts me off.

"No, listen to me." She takes a deep breath in, exhales slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. "I have to know that you'll take care of Dawn," she whispers, and her eyes flood, filling with tears at the same time as mine do. "That you'll keep her safe. That you'll love her like I love the two of you."

The two of you.

It reminds me of what Dawn said to me all those mornings ago, when I'd walked into her room and seen her looking at that photograph.

" _I don't want it to just be the two of us."_

And I'd looked her in the eye and promised her it wouldn't be.

And now Mom's looking at me, asking me to make almost the exact opposite.

It's the last thing I want to do, the last promise I want to make. Like by agreeing, somehow, it might make it okay for it to happen. By acknowledging, out loud, that it might be something we have to face. That I might have to take care of Dawn.

That we could lose or Mom today.

It's a horrible, awful, twisted request she's making if me, and I don't want to promise it to her. Don't want to say the words out loud, to make it okay.

But I can keep it.

Unlike the promise I made to Dawn, I can keep this one.

And I can see it on her face, in the frantic way her eyes are searching mine now, that she needs me to say it.

"I promise," I whisper, hating the words as they leave my mouth, feeling how traitorous they are.

Every muscle in Mom's body seems to relax and she leans forward, wrapping her arms around me and squeezing me tightly as she sighs. I wrap my arms around her, too, squeezing my eyes shut, trying my hardest not to let the weight of the next words she says make me crumble, tear away the last of the brave face I've fought so hard, for so long, to maintain.

"Oh, my sweet, brave Buffy," she breathes, and I can feel the wetness on my skin, the tears she'd been fighting falling onto my shoulder. "What would I do without you?"

I just sit there and hug her to me, my eyes wide and full of fresh tears as I think the exact same thing about her.

 _What would I do without you?_

And sending up tiny, desperate pleas to whoever might be listening that I'll never have to find out.


	21. Chapter 21 pt 1

It's been hours.

How many, I don't know. I stopped looking at the clock after the third of fourth. The nurse had explained to me that it would be a longer surgery, sure, but hours…I just hadn't expected. I guess I don't know enough about all this to have known what to expect. A long surgery to me would have been, like, two.

But it's been so much longer than that.

I sit in the stiff. uncomfortable chair and keep my eyes focused down on the ground at my feet. Dawn is sleeping now, thankfully. She'd cried a little bit, but only after we'd watched Mom be wheeled through the OR doors.

Not in front of her.

She'd been so brave, my little sister. Smiling for Mom, her arm wrapped around my waist as we'd told her we'd see her after surgery.

I wonder if I could have been as brave at her age.

I don't feel like I'm even being brave now. Not really.

I haven't cried, I guess. But that's also a little because I haven't let myself.

It had been hard throughout the morning, and now into the afternoon, to remember everything I'd said to Spike last night. It had been harder, still, not to want him here.

Part of me wishes he'd never offered. If he hadn't brought it up, I would never have even considered it. And if I hadn't ever considered it, I wouldn't be thinking about him being here now. And I've been trying my hardest not to think about it, because I'm a little afraid that he might actually show up if I do.

Not that I wouldn't be glad to see him.

I glance over toward the magazine rack in the center of the waiting room, watching Giles absently purews the titles. He's been standing over there for a half an hour. Trying, I think, not to hover too much.

I think briefly about what would happen, all the many _this is how wrong this could go_ scenarios of Spike showing up here at the hospital in the middle of the day.

No.

 _It's just not the right time._

I shift my eyes down again, toward Dawn's face. Her eyes are closed, but I can see the slight puffiness still on her cheeks from the tears. Even now, hours later. Her head is resting on my lap, her hair soft as I run it over and over again through my fingers.

Back in the waiting room. Back waiting, hoping for good news. Expecting the worst.

Was it really just a few days ago we'd been sitting here like this? When we'd learned about the shadow.

It seems like ages.

My free hand moves to the new scarf I'd tied around my neck this morning before leaving. I'd taken a quick, cursory glance in the mirror to see how Spike's bite mark was healing before leaving the house. It had definitely healed a little, started to fade around the edges. Still a little bruised, still obviously a bite wound.

So I'd gone into Mom's room and grabbed the first scarf I'd seen, draped over a little desk chair in the corner of her bedroom.

I touch it almost absently now, twisting my fingers into the silky purple fabric,luxuriating in how smooth it feels, how cool against my skin.

And makes me think of Spike. Again.

Whether it's because of what it's covering up, or just the cool, silky texture that feels so much like his skin, I'm not sure.

I let my eyes drift closed, thinking about the moment between us this morning. The kiss, the way he'd looked at me, the fierceness in his eyes.

" _If you need me."_

I flinch suddenly, my eyes popping open and looking up when I feel the body suddenly hovering in front of me.

I'm almost disappointed when I see Giles looking down at me.

"Just me," he says softly, scanning my face with curious grey eyes. Maybe wondering why I look disappointed to see him there. "Sorry. Can I get you anything?"

It's the same question he's been asking me all morning, every half an hour or so. I can tell how much he hates being here, waiting, not getting any answers.

Maybe almost as much as I do.

Neither of us are used to feeling so completely useless.

"No," I say, shaking my head. I give him a small, as-sincere-as-I-can-make-it smile. "Thank you."

Giles nods, and starts to turn away from me.

And he stops suddenly, frowning, turning back toward me again. I watch as his eyes drift toward my hand, still twined into my scarf.

Like he's seeing it, noticing it for the first time.

I dimly realize the last time he'd seen me wear a scarf around my neck was after the whole Prince of Darkness debacle.

I hadn't thought about. Hadn't even considered the possibility that he might put two and two together. Not that he would automatically assume it had anything to do with Spike, exactly, but it's risky either way.

The knots that have set up camp in my stomach twist harder as I look up at him, see the wheels turning in his head, before finally turning his eyes back to mine.

 _Not here_ , I think, willing him to understand me. _Not now._

Because if this comes out now, if we make a big thing about it, then there's no real good reason why Spike couldn't be here, couldn't have come.

And I need there to be a reason.

After a long moment, Giles nods again.

"You'll let me know if either you or Dawn need anything?" He asks.

Relieved, if just the tiniest, insiest bit , I nod back. "Sure."

I watch him move back away from me, heading toward the little coffee table that's set up in the far side of the waiting room. He casts one more wary, concerned glance over his shoulder at me, but I feel like the issue's been dropped.

At least for now.

I turn my eyes away from Giles and back down toward Dawn. She's shifted a little in my lap, turned her head up more toward mine. But her eyes are still closed, and I can see the rapid movement of them beneath her eyelids.

Dreaming.

I hope whatever it is is happy.

"What time is it?" I hear Willow ask, her voice soft, directed to Xander.

They're sitting side by side, directly across from Dawn and I. They got here a couple hours ago and, after giving both Dawn and I two massive bear hugs, had settled down on the opposite side of the room.

I'm not sure why, exactly. Maybe they thought it'd be better to give us space. Whatever the reason, I don't really mind.

Giles had asked me first, before calling, if I wanted them here. I'd answered him by saying that yes, of course I wanted them here.

I'd planned on them being here.

Another part of the reason I'd given for not having Spike come. If they hadn't come…

I blink, shoving that thought aside, forcing my attention back to my friends.

Xander's eyes are focused down at the ground on his feet, his voice quiet, too, as he answers, "There's a clock behind you, Will."

It's true, there is. A big, ugly one with giant numbers and a much too big minute hand that's ticking by way too slow for me.

It's the same one I'd made a habit of not looking at for the past few hours.

My eyes drift toward it now.

2:30 p.m. My mom's been in surgery for over seven hours.

Any relief I'd felt from the Giles/scarf incident a moment ago goes away, replaced with the harsh reality of where we are, what we're doing here. I turn my eyes back down again, only half listening to the rest of Willow and Xander's conversation.

"I know," she's saying now, "but there's a watch right above your hand."

There's a brief pause, and I glance up a little through my lashes to see Xander lift his left wrist over to Willow, not looking at her as she reads the time on the watch face.

I see her frown.

"That can't be right," she mutters under her breath, so low I can barely hear her.

 _Yes it can_ , I think to myself.

I watch as he twists around in her seat, looking toward the traitorous, too big clock on the wall behind her.

I see her shoulders sag, and she twists back around, slumping down into her chair again.

"Oh," she murmurs.

Xander starts tapping his foot.

And I feel a little sick now. More than the anxious knot twisting from before, more poignant, nauseous. It felt like one thing when it was just me, up in my head, worrying about the time. Thinking about how much longer this was taking than I thought it would.

Hearing both Xander and Willow express the same kind of concern makes it miles and miles worse.

I look at Dawn one more time, even more grateful now that she's still sleeping. Sweeping a few strands of hair off her face, I think about the moment I'd shared with Mom this morning, before they'd taken her into surgery. The promise she'd made me make. And I hate it even more now than I had then, hate what it means.

Hate that it's even something Mom had thought was necessary to ask of me.

For the first time since being here, since pressing myself down into this chair all those hours ago, I feel the aching, familiar sting of tears.

"I can't stand this," I say suddenly, blinking, turning my gaze up toward my friends. And Giles, who's now standing across from me, hovering beside Willow's chair.

Three pairs of eyes focus on me. I look between the three of them, shaking my head. "What's taking so long?"

"It doesn't mean anything," Willow says quickly, looking like she wants to get up out of her seat and come over to me.

But she doesn't.

"How do you know that?" I ask, voice thick, laying my hand over Dawn's cheek, unconsciously shielding her, covering her ear.

I don't want her to hear me worrying, even if she is asleep. Don't want me interrupting any sweet, good dream she might be having.

Giles steps forward, a styrofoam cup in one hand, the other stuffed into the pocket of his jacket.

"I'd be far more concerned if your mother was out of surgery quickly, Buffy," he says, searching my eyes. "Brain surgery is…" he trails off, thinking, gesturing with his cup. "Well, it's—"

"Brian surgery?" Xander offers glibly, glancing over at the older man.

"Well, yes," he concedes, giving a small tilt of his head, dropping his eyes down and to the left the way he does when he's considering something. "If they finished too quickly it could mean that…there wasn't much they could do."

I frown, biting down into my bottom lip and turning my eyes toward the big clock.

2:55 p.m.

I look back down at Dawn, look back up at my friends, mouth open to say something.

And then I snap it shut.

Because Dr. Kriegel is coming down the hallway, straight toward us. A cold wave shudders through me, starting at the back of my throat and making it's way down to my toes.

Gently, I place both hands on my sister's head and lift her off my lap, waking her in the process. She shifts away from me, blinking groggily. I tap her on the shoulder to get her attention, then gesture toward the doctor. Her eyes instantly go wide.

We get to our feet at the same time, moving across the waiting room floor on sleepy, instead legs.

As we pass by Xander and Willow, they get to their feet, too.

I step up in front of him, meeting him halfway down the hallway, Dawn hovering just to my left. I can feel everyone's eyes on me, boring holes into the back of my head as I stare at Dr. Kriegel, trying to read the expression on his face.

It's impassive, and I can't.

"Okay," he says, coming to a stop in front of me, putting his hands out low in front of him. "Your mom's in recovery."

Recovery. If she's in recovery, that means she's fine. Right?

At the very least, she's still here.

 _She's still here._

I reach down and grab blindly for Dawn's hand, squeezing it when I find it. She squeezes back.

"What happened?" I ask, the relief I feel building in my chest about ready to burst out. I keep a tight hold on it, not wanting to let it out just yet. Not wanting to get my hopes up, or Dawn's. Not until I know for sure… "Is she alright?"

Dr. Kriegel takes a deep breath in, exhaling as he begins to explain.

"It was possible to visualize the tumor completely," he says, and then there's the smallest twitch in his lips, something that might be the beginnings of a smile. "Which means I was able to get all of it."

 _Oh_.

Oh, God.

All of it. The whole thing. That's what he's saying. He was able to get rid of the entire tumor. My mother doesn't have a brain tumor anymore.

I repeat the phrase again in my head, letting the weight of it sink in.

 _My mother doesn't have a brain tumor anymore._

I tighten my grip on Dawn's hand, waiting for the doctor to continue, waiting for him to finish giving us the news. The incredible news.

That our mom isn't sick anymore.

That she's going to be fine.

"So, barring complications in recovery," And he does smile at us now. A genuine, warm smile that I feel burrowing down into my chest, releasing all of the pent up relief that's been building there since he'd first started speaking. "I think your mother's going to be fine."

And there it is. The words I've so desperately, desperately needed to hear. Tears flood my eyes again, but they're so different this time. Happy. Happy tears.

When was the last time that happened?

I turn toward Dawn to give her a hug just as she's throwing her arms around me. She's laughing, I can hear her, and there's just the littlest bit of wetness on my cheek where she's pressing it against hers. I squeeze her as tightly as I can without hurting her, only letting go once I hear Dr. Kriegel trying to talk to us again.

I turn back toward him, trying to focus on whatever it is he's saying.

"Of course we're still going to have to watch your mother carefully," he's saying, still smiling, but looking at me with serious eyes. "Have her back in here for some follow-up testing."

I stand there waiting for him to go on. When he doesn't, and he's looking at me expectantly, I nod.

I don't know what else to do.

"But _overall_ ," he says, the tone of his voice very light, "I'd consider the procedure a complete success."

I smile again, turning around to throw my arms around both Xander and Willow, who've been hovering directly behind me. They return my hug, the looks on their faces equally relieved, as happy as I;m sure mine is.

I glance toward Giles, and he's smiling over at me, too.

"Oh my goodness, doctor, thank you," I say, turning back around to face him, a huge, bright smile on my face. "Thank you so much."

Dr. Kriegel nods. "Please," he says, "it's my pleasure—"

He's cut off a little when I lean forward and hug him, wrapping my arms around him just a little too tightly. Not thinking.

Right. Slayer strength.

"Sorry," I say quickly, releasing him, stepping away. I wince a little at the look on his face. I'm sure Giles will have something to say about this. "Sorry!"

Dr. Kriegel is still eyeing me warily, but he reaches out and pats me on the arm. I beam at him.

"When can we see her?" I ask.

The doctor considers my question for a moment, glances over his shoulder back toward the clock, then back to me.

"She'll be in recovery for a few hours, and then we'll move her back into an in-patient room." He reaches up and pulls his scrub cap off, feathering a hand through his hair. "She'll probably be out of it for the rest of the day, though."

I'm a little disappointed by the news, but not enough for it to overshadow how entirely, overwhelmingly happy I am.

I can wait a day.

 _We have years._

"Tomorrow?" Dawn asks, stepping closer to me. "Will she be awake tomorrow?"

The doctor considers her for a moment, then nods, smiling. "I'd say tomorrow is a safe bet." he folds his arms over his chest, looking between the two of us. "Your mom's a tough lady."

"It runs in the family," Xander pipes up from behind me. I glance at him over my shoulder, giving him a warm, grateful smile.

"What can we do in the mean time?" I ask, turning back around.

"You can go _home_ ," Dr. Kriegel says without hesitating, looking pointedly between all of us, lingering finally on me. "Your mom's in good hands."

Yes, she is. Because they got the whole thing, the whole stupid tumor, out.

I turn to Dawn, matching her bright smile and happy, wet eyes with my own.

 _And she's going to be fine._

I ask Giles if I can meet him at the Magic Box later today. He doesn't ask me why, though I can see the question in his eyes as he agrees.

I'd originally planned to put off talking to him about the…thing going on with Spike until tomorrow, but I want to spend the day with Mom tomorrow.

Besides, he's already seen the scarf. He's probably already going through scenario after scenario in his head, and I should probably get in there and set the record straight before whatever it is he thinks he knows gets out of hand.

We plan to meet in the early evening, after he's closed the shop for the day.

I give one last, giant hug to both Willow and Xander, thanking them for coming today, for being here with us.

And then Dawn and I head home.

Both Xander and Giles had offered to give us a ride back to Revello, but I'd turned them down. The hospital isn't a far walk at all. Nothing in Sunnydale is.

And I'd wanted a chance to talk to her.

"Hey," she says after we've walked a little ways, leaning slightly forward and turning her face toward mine. "Remember when I asked you if everything was going to be okay now?"

I slow my pace a little bit, focusing my eyes on her. Her face isn't puffy anymore, and her eyes are very blue, very bright as she looks at me.

I realize what it is I'm seeing there. Something I haven't seen in what feels like forever.

Hope.

I nod at her. " I do."

"I think it is," she says, turning her face forward again, matching her pace to mine.

I loop my arm through hers, meeting her eyes when he glances toward me again. I smile at her.

"I think so, too."

And it's the truth. For the first time in weeks, I actually feel like things are going to be okay. That I'm not lying to protect anyone's feelings, but being honest about my own.

It feels really good.

"So," Dawn says, drawing the word out as she faces front again. "How long have you been dating Spike?"

The air freezes in my lungs, and I stumble just slightly. Completely caught off guard.

I whip my head down to look at her, blinking.

" _What_?"

She rolls her eyes at me, just keeps walking.

Like what she's just said is the most natural thing in the world. I probably shouldn't be surprised. After the thing with his lighter yesterday, and the way I'd woken up this morning. I'd known that eventually, sooner or later, she'd have to ask me about what was going on.

There's no way she wasn't going to.

I guess I just thought it might be _later_.

And I didn't think she'd jump right to…to dating. Dating. Me and Spike.

 _Dating._

Do you even date vampires? Is that a thing?

The word doesn't match up in my head. I mean, what I'd had with Angel, that wasn't…dating. That was…well, it was…I frown, thinking about it now. I guess I'm not sure exactly what it was.

Doomed, maybe?

It's not like we'd gone out to dinner, or to the movies, or anything like that. We'd made plans to get coffee that one time, and even _that_ hadn't gone over well.

"Oh, come on," Dawn's saying now, eyes still rolled skyward. "It's so obvious. I just wanna know when it started. I mean," she pauses for just a moment, considering, "was it _before_ you ended things with Riley, or after?" Her eyebrows shoot up and she turns toward me, her hands out in front of her. "Oh! Was it _why_ you—"

"Spike and I are not _dating_ , Dawn," I tell her, cutting her off mid-sentence. Not wanting her to continue on that particular train of thought.

Better that she doesn't know how close she is to being right.

Granted, Spike hadn't been the only reason I'd ended things with Riley. There'd been so many, too many, other things wrong with our relationship to count. Spike wasn't…well he wasn't _the_ factor, at least.

I think it'd be a lie to say he wasn't one at all. The dreams had definitely been a factor.

"Okay," she says breezily, in that too sweet, annoying little sister way. Looking very much like she doesn't actually believe me. "You're not dating Spike."

And she says that like she doesn't believe it, either.

I scowl at her, nodding, feeling like the scarf around my neck is getting tighter by the second. "I'm not."

I turn to face front again, focusing on the long line of tall trees all along the sidewalk.

"How long have you been in love with him, then?"

I whip my head back toward her so fast I'd swear I get whiplash. " _Dawn_!"

She blinks at me dumbly. "What?"

I throw my hands up in the air.

"I am not in love with…" I cut myself off, realizing how very, very loud my voice is. I glance around us, looking to see if anyone might have overheard, then focus narrowed eyes back on my sister. "I am not in _love_ with Spike."

And I notice that even as I say the words, it kind of feels like a lie.

I push the thought away as quickly as it's cropped up, shoving it away, burying it down deep for another time. Another day.

She gives me a knowing smile, sighing exaggeratedly and shaking her head. "What's that Shakespeare thing…" she trails off, tapping her fingers against her chin thoughtfully. "The one about protesting too much?"

I scowl at her again, rolling my eyes. As If I hadn't seen _that one_ coming from ten miles away.

"I'm not _protesting_ ," I say, unlinking my arm with hers and gesturing absently out in front of me. "I'm just…telling you you're wrong." My voice squeaks up a little at the end as I realize what I've just said.

That it's pretty much exactly what I'm doing.

I make a face, not at all ready for be the self examination. When I glance back at Dawn she has one eyebrow raised sardonically.

When did my little sister become such a know-it-all?

"Fine," she says, not sounding like it's fine at all, "you're not in love with him. What were you doing using him as a pillow this morning?"

I open my mouth to respond automatically, only to realize I don't have a good automatic answer. Or I do, but none of them are exactly what I'd choose to say right off the bat.

I needed him there.

I wanted him there.

I sat on our sofa and poured my heart out to him, and he just sat there and listened. Let me.

He made me feel better.

All of these are viable answers, and all of them are true. I'm just not sure which is the one I'm ready to say out loud.

"He was just…I mean, we…we're…" I trail off, scrunching my nose up, looking for the right word. We're _what_?

Enemies? _Ex_ -enemies? Connected to each other? Sleeping together?

 _Friends_?

I'm not sure what the right answer is. Though I'm starting to think it might be E or F, whatever letter, all of the above. Some totally bizarre combination of all the above that neither of us seems to be able to get a firm grip on.

I reach up and fiddle distractedly with the scarf around my neck, thinking of the conversation I'm going to have to have with Giles later tonight.

I take a deep breath in and let it out through pursed lips.

"We're…figuring it out," I finish finally, settling on an answer that's both true and not too specific.

"Okay," she says lightly, seemingly satisfied enough for the time being with the answer I've given her.

It's quiet for a little while as we continue walking. I turn my eyes down to the sidewalk, watching the cracks go by as we walk.

"But there is _something_ going on between you guys, right?"

I roll my eyes up.

 _Or maybe not quite satisfied._

"Dawn, please…" I groan, turning to face toward her again. Her eyes are wide open, shining, excited. The smile on her lips is so genuine.

And she looks so open, so happy. And we're in the middle of this…this moment, sharing something as sisters. Something that doesn't include the doom and gloom of brain tumors and surgery and the possibility of losing our mom.

So I sigh, nodding my head, a dry smile starting to curve my lips.

"Yeah," I say, turning forward, starting to walk again, "there's…something going on between us."

This is true, too, even if it is a little vague.

Dawn steps forward, falling into step beside me again, leaning her shoulder into mine and smiling over at me.

"Cool," she says, linking her arm back through mine.

I glance toward her, and it's my turn to raise an eyebrow. "You think so?"

Beside me, I feel her shrug.

"Well, yeah," she says, turning to look at me. "Why wouldn't I?"

 _Oh, I don't know_ , I think wryly, _maybe because_ no one _else will_.

I think about what Spike said, about there not being any version of what's happening where he doesn't end up dust. I touch the corner of my scarf again with my free hand, grimacing at the thought.

I'm not so sure he's wrong.

But Dawn doesn't seem to be wigging even a little bit. If anything, she seems verging on pleased by the news.

I frown.

"You're not freaked?" I ask, finding that I'm actually genuinely surprised by this. Not at all disappointed, but surprised, yes.

I mean…this is still _Spike_ we're talking about. And as honestly pretty great he's been with me lately, that's something in and of itself that won't be so easily overlooked by the rest of the gang.

I watch Dawn as she seems to consider my question for a second, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of her cheek.

"No," she says finally, like it's something she's really thought about. "Not really. I mean, yeah, you and vampires, with the romance and all...don't have the _greatest_ track record or anything…" She turns to look at me, and like it's the most obvious thing to say, "but Spike and Angel are completely different."

I think over what it is she's just said.

It's interesting to me, that this is the logic she uses to explain why she doesn't seem to be having a problem with this. Especially when I know it's the exact same reasoning I'll get from the others as part of why they _do_. Angel and Spike are completely different.

As in, one has a soul and one doesn't.

It's the same reasoning I would have given, practically did give, just a few days ago. After the first time with Spike behind The Bronze. The reason I gave for why it was something, a mistake, and it would never… _could_ never happen again.

For some reason, it doesn't seem to be as good a reason to me now as it had before.

I end up telling Dawn about last night, and the night before. How his lighter ended up on the floor in front of our sink. It feels good to just talk about it, even though I keep a major amount of the details to myself.

For good reason.

All I really tell her is that he came by last night because I'd asked him to, and that he'd ended up staying because I'd fallen asleep. I only tell her sparingly about what it is we'd talked about, basically implying that he'd been worried about Mom, too.

It isn't a lie.

Besides that, I don't want Dawn ever knowing all the things I'd told him, the worries and the fears and the insecurities I'd let out.

The worst might be over, Mom might be out o the woods, but that doesn't mean I want to drag my little sister down the dark and twisty path my mind has been on for the past several weeks.

In the end, it's Dawn who suggests it.

That I need to go tell Spike how the operation went, make sure he knows that Mom's going to be okay.

And that's how I find myself here now. Standing in front of Spike's crypt, my hand raised, poised to knock, wondering why it is I suddenly feel so insanely awkward.

After everything else, knocking. Knocking is what makes me want to run and hide. Because it feels so…formal. And weird. And not at all the way things have been between us lately.

But things haven't exactly been kick-in-the-crypt-door between us, either.

Sighing, irritated with myself, I drop my hand down from it's knocking position and reach for the handle instead, pushing the door open instead. I step inside quickly, shutting the door before any good amount of sunlight can filter in behind me.

It's crazy dark in here without the candlelight. There's always candlelight in here at night, which, I realize, is pretty much the only time I've ever been here.

There's just a little bit of light filtering in now through the small slits in the stone to my right, over on the top of the crypt's wall.

I guess you could call them windows, but that's being pretty generous.

It's enough to see by after my eyes have adjusted, though, so after about a half minute of stony silence, I start to walk forward. Down the steps, out into the main, more open area.

I see the armchair and the TV, which is off. I see his fridge over in the far corner of the room, and a coffin lid that he's apparently converted into some sort of makeshift bar.

I haven't noticed it before.

I keep walking, further and further into the space, glancing around as I go.

Nothing.

No Spike.

It doesn't make sense.

It's still daylight, probably around 4:30 or so by now, so it's not like he can be out running around. Beside that, I can feel him here. The normal vampire sense tinglies, and the stronger, more insistent pulsing that I recognize as purely, uniquely Spike.

So he's here. He has to be.

I wander a little further into the crypt until my feet bump into something that no longer feels or sounds like cement. I glance down, squinting my eyes in the dark to see whatever it is that's below me.

It's a door. Or a hatch of some kind, wooden planks secured together and laid on top of what looks like might be an opening. I lean down and push, moving it aside easily, revealing the gaping hole in the stone floor.

A downstairs.

A downstairs, I realize, that probably has tunnel or sewer access.

I take one last look around the immediate area, looking for something like might provide me some light. A flashlight, a torch maybe.

I don't see anything.

For about half a second, I consider just giving up and leaving before I drop down to my knees, leaning forward onto my hands. I brace them on stone floor beside the large opening and lean as far over as I dare, trying and ultimately failing to see down into the darkness. It's pitch, pitch black.

If he is down there, there's no way I'll be able to find him without possibly breaking an ankle. Or my neck.

Frowning, feeling frustrated, I sit back onto my heels.

"Well, now," a low, rumbling purr from behind me, "that's a right shame."

I jump, letting out a tiny, squeaking noise and whip my head around over my shoulder.

Spike's standing there, watching me, his head tilted just slightly to the side. Wearing nothing but his black jeans, an open button down shirt and a smirk.

"Was just startin' to enjoy the view," he says, curling his tongue, folding his arms over his chest.

I feel the blush coming before it even reaches my cheeks, ducking my eyes down to the ground and hurriedly pushing myself to my feet.

I keep my eyes down on the ground as I dust my jeans off, wondering just how long exactly he'd been standing there behind me.

That's when I notice that he's barefoot, and his hair isn't gelled back.

He'd been sleeping.

Of course, he'd been sleeping. It's still the afternoon, still daylight out. Vampire.

"Did I wake you up?" I ask, finishing dusting myself off, standing up straight. My cheeks are still hot, and I still can't meet his eyes.

I don't know why something as innocuous as Spike staring at my fully covered butt is making me feel so uncomfortable now.

Maybe because I think I'd felt him there behind me before I'd sat back.

Possibly a good fifteen seconds before.

And I'm wondering if he knows that, and if that's the reason he's still looking at me like he should have yellow feathers wedged in between his teeth.

"No," he murmurs, and I watch the smirk fall just a little, eyes softening. Like it isn't a question he'd expected me to ask. "Was already up."

I frown, taking a second to glance around the upper level of the crypt. If he'd been up here when I came in, surely I would have seen him.

"In here?" I ask, wondering where.

He nods. "Was standing' not two feet away from you, Slayer," he says, pointing over in the direction of the fridge. I glance over in that direction, too, noticing for the first time what looks like a mason jar sitting on top of the coffin in front of the fridge.

I'm assuming it's filled with blood, but it's actually a little hard to tell from where I'm standing.

"Oh," I say simply, turning my eyes back to the vampire in front of me.

There's a pause that stretches between us as we look at each other, and when we finally start to speak we do it at the same time.

"Well, I—"

"How did it go today?"

There's another pause. Then, he murmurs a quiet "You first."

I smile awkwardly at him, remembering the last moment between us this morning, and reach up to run a hand through my hair.

"The doctor says Mom's going to be fine," I say, taking a couple steps toward him. "He uh, he said they got the whole thing. So…"

"Brilliant," he says, unfolding his arms and taking a step toward me, too. "That's…that's really good."

He means it. That much is obvious, in his voice, the way he's looking at me. But I can hear something else there, too. I look at him, studying his face, trying to read the look in his eyes in the dim light. He looks…pleased by the news, but not really all that surprised.

"Yeah," I agree, still watching him carefully, "I…well, Dawn and I thought you should…" I stop myself, trailing off, watching the emotions play over his face. I take another step toward him.

"You already knew."

Not a question.

His lips quirk up a little. "Had an idea, yeah."

I'm not sure why the thought hadn't crossed my mind before, that he might already know. That he probably could feel my relief, my joy, as acutely as he'd felt my need for him.

There's a little voice in the back of my head that tells me it did cross my mind, and that maybe I ignored it. In favor of coming here, of having an excuse to come here in the middle of the day.

Coming here and telling him in person.

I do my best to ignore it, but it's awfully insistent.

"But," he says, stepping forward slowly, crossing to fill the rest of the space between us. He looks down at me, his eyes shadowed, voice low. "Thank you for comin' here to tell me."

And he knows.

I can hear it in his voice. It's painfully obvious, so crystal clear that he knows even better than I do that I didn't have to come here to tell him, and that I did anyway.

"I wanted to make sure you knew," I say, keeping my eyes locked to his.

"I knew." He steps closer to me still, our noses almost touching.

If he'd known that, then he'd probably known he rest, too. How I'd been thinking about him. How I'd been wanting him there.

I wonder if he'd wanted to be there, too. Not the way he'd offered, offered because he thought I might need him, but _wanted_ to be there.

I don't ask.

"A-and also I wanted to tell you that I'm going to talk to Giles," I stammer out, still very close to him. "Tonight."

Spike looks like this, at least, is a surprise. His brow furrows.

"Tonight?"

I nod. "I'm supposed to meet him at the Magic Box at after closing."

Spike frowns deeper, shaking his head. I still can't read his eyes. "Why tonight?"

"He saw my scarf." I say it like I don't need another reason.

Spike's eyebrow shoots up.

"He saw your _scarf_?"

"Yeah," I say, my turn to frown at him now. I reach up and pluck at the fabric, pulling it slightly away from the bite mark, like I'm reminding him it's there. "I don't normally make a habit of walking around looking like Peggy Sue."

His lips twitch a little but he doesn't smile, still looking down at me with that fathomless expression.

"Seems a bit…rushed is all. I mean, your mum _just_ had surgery." He emphasizes the word with a gesture off in the general direction of the hospital. "Don't you wanna wait a few days?"

Listening to him, hearing the words, the way he's saying them. It's clear he doesn't want me talking to Giles yet. What isn't clear is why.

He was the one who suggested it in the first place.

Unless this is about what he'd said before, the whole dusty ending thing.

That would make sense.

"I already told you," I say, shaking my head. "You don't need to come."

I'm surprised when Spike laughs.

I watch him as he rolls his eyes, like it's the silliest thing I've ever said.

"Don't be daft," he says, reaching toward me, barely brushing the tips of his fingers over my face as he looks at me, lips forming a serious line. "'Course I'm comin'."

But I'm not even sure I _want_ him to come. It's true, I had. Initially.

Now I'm not so sure it wouldn't be easier, go more smoothly, if it was just me in there talking to Giles. Give me a chance to explain things, to edit certain things out...without risking the whole ashes to ashes issue.

"Spike—"

He cuts me off with a kiss.

One I didn't see coming, somehow catching me completely off guard. Not gentle like the one this morning had been, but urgent, hard. Like it's proving a point, or maybe just making one.

My lips are tingling when he pulls back again, the color in eyes shifting from azure to navy as the sun sets outside, the light dimming further in the crypt.

His voice is low, serious when he says "Just as involved in all this as you are, yeah?"

I stare at him, blinking, my tongue darting out to wet my vibrating lower lip. His eyes turn to my mouth again.

"Besides," he says, and I watch his gaze travel over my lips, down the line of my jaw, over my throat. It stops there, looking at the scarf on my neck. He bites down with blunt teeth into his lip. "The blighter might need us both there, if we're gonna _fix_ this."

I open my mouth to say something, instinctively wanting to deny what it is he's just said, to explain again that it hadn't been what I'd meant.

But then his eyes meet mine again, and they're bright, mischievous, the lines around them soft.

Teasing. He's teasing me.

Not mocking, there's nothing cruel, nothing hard in the way he's just spoken to me.

"You're not funny," I tell him, trying my best to infuse a hard edge in my voice.

Unsuccessfully.

Spike just looks at me, tilting his head to the side.

"I'm very funny."

And he kisses me again.

I let my eyes fall shut, kissing him back, thinking about how different this kiss is even from the one a moment ago.

I don't understand it, how every time he kisses me is a little different. This one feels like the most natural thing in the world. Like it's something we've done a million time, every day.

Like we _fit_.

When we separate, and I'm the first to pull away this time, he keeps his hand right where it is. Cool, flush against my cheek.

I inhale, exhale slowly.

"You're serious," I murmur, searching his eyes. "About coming."

He nods, his thumb brushing across the curve of my cheekbone.

"As a bleeding heart attack," he says, then pauses. Considers what he's said. Smirks at me. "If I could have one, that is."

And I can't help myself.

I lean up and press one final, quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. There's absolutely nothing sensual about it at all. Nothing overly meaningful, or overtly sweet. It's casual. It's fast and a little sloppy and so mind-blowingly average.

And for that reason, it almost seems to matter more.

"Okay," I say, stepping away from him, letting his hand fall from its place on my cheek. "Let's go."

Neither of us had realized we'd still had an hour before I was supposed to meet Giles. Dawn had known when I'd left that I wouldn't be back until later, and an hour didn't leave us with a whole lot of extra time, so Spike and I had done a quick sweep of Restfield on our way out.

With the help of stakes from Spike's weapons chest. A small one he keeps somewhat hidden toward the back of his crypt, consisting of a cross bow, a couple stakes and a wicked looking knife he said he won in a poker game.

Knowing his weapons stash included so many stakes, obviously used for patrolling, had made me chest feel all fluttery and warm.

It being so early, so near to sunset, there hadn't been much to patrol for. Two older vamps skulking around one of the mausoleums nearby that we'd managed to take out in about a minute flat.

Even that, the patrolling, had been heightened by the connection between us. Made things faster, easier. It felt like we could read each other, our moves, before we'd even begun to execute them.

Out of everything else, all the other ways we've been able to feel and sense and touch each other, I think I'm almost the most curious about that.

I'm already thinking of things, ways to test it out, when Spike and I enter the back door of the Magic Box. Neither of us speaks as we make our way through the training room and out into the main store space just as Giles is turning the little OPEN sign around in the window, twisting the dead bolt locked on the front door.

"Buffy," he says, his back still turned to me, "I'm glad you're here. We need to discuss—"

He turns around and stops short, cutting his sentence off staring at the space just over my left shoulder where I know Spike is standing.

"Spike," he murmurs, his voice taking on a lower, more dangerous tone.

I'm not sure if he's finished the sentence he was just saying, or if he's merely pointing out the fact the bleached vampire is standing beside me.

He frowns, eyes going back and forth between the two of us, taking the steps down onto the main level very slowly.

"What's going on here?" He asks, coming to stand a few feet in front of us.

His eyes land on the scarf tied around my neck again, and I can see it happening, see the beginnings of understanding crossing his features.

His eyes widen slightly behind the rims of his glasses.

 _Here goes nothing._

I reach up and untie the scarf, taking it in one hand and sliding it off, letting the silky fabric graze over the wound, sending another little shiver down my spine as it does.

I feel Spike tense up beside me, whether in reaction to my reaction to his bite or to the situation we're about to get ourselves into, I'm not sure.

I step to the side slightly, automatically angling my body in front of his as Giles drags his eyes back up to mine.

Taking a hold of my hair, twisting it, I drag it all over to one side, baring the curve of my neck to him. I wait for his eyes to turn down, to focus on the exposed bite mark before I speak.

"We were hoping you could tell us."


	22. Chapter 21 pt 2

Turns out, being all with the big bite reveal right out of the gate…probably not the smartest move.

It's quiet in the store for about three long seconds before Giles launches himself forward, but I'm faster than he is, wedging my body firmly between him and Spike and putting both my hands out.

Giles skids to a halt, but his eyes are wild, riveted on the vampire behind me.

And if someone would have told me a couple months ago that I'd be standing here, wedged between my Watcher and Spike, using my body as a human shield, I'd have laughed in their face.

And yet that's exactly what I'm doing.

"Whoa, whoa, wait!" I press my back into Spike, pushing him slightly further backward, my hands still out in a stopping motion in front of me. "Let me explain."

Giles's chest is heaving, his nostrils flaring angrily as he drags his eyes away from Spike and back down toward me.

"Maybe the explanation should've come first," Spike whispers in my ear, his voice so low I'm sure only I can hear him.

It doesn't keep Giles from looking at him again, seeing him leaning forward, his lips pressed very close to my ear.

I can only imagine the type of picture we're painting.

"Yes," Giles says now, narrowing his eyes, looking back at me again. "I think that would be a good idea."

Explanation. Right.

I can do the explanation.

"Okay," I say, drawing the word out, floundering a little.

Now that Giles isn't actively coming at Spike, and I'm still just awkwardly standing in between the two of them, I'm not sure where to start.

I stand up a little straighter, pulling my back away from where it had been momentarily pressed into Spike's chest, and lower my hands.

"Okay," I say again,more firmly this time, then reach up and point toward the spot on my neck that Giles's eyes are glued to again. "First of all, this isn't what it looks like."

Spike's low chuckle behind me ruffles my hair.

"Or, it is," I say, stepping forward. "But it isn't…Spike didn't…" I'm crashing. Hard. "I wanted him to."

I clamp my mouth shut instantly, kicking myself.

Not the right thing to say.

Giles's eyebrows shoot up and he steps forward again. "You _what_?"

 _Way_ not the right thing to say.

I freeze, staring at him wide eyed, realizing what I've just said. I haven't even told Spike that, yet.

But it's all just coming out. The words, just coming out, tumbling passed my lips before I can stop them.

"Spike and I have…we've been…feeling things."

God, I'm _terrible_ at this.

"Bloody hell, Slayer," Spike murmurs from behind me, the barest hint of a smile in his voice. I get the feeling that he's enjoying this little display way too much.

In front of me, I watch Giles as his hands curl into fists at his sides. I'm not even sure he knows he's doing it.

"Not those things!" I amend immediately, watching the anger fade into confusion, flickering over his face. _Well, not_ just _those things._ "Like we're…I mean, we've been _feeling_ each other." _That's not any better._ "Emotionally," I add quickly.

Spike chuckles again. I fight the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

"Buffy?" Giles prompts.

I take a deep breath in, exhaling slowly through my nose. "It's like we're...connected or something."

 _There._

But Giles doesn't look any happier than he had a moment ago, when I'd first started talking. His eyes are back on Spike again, and he takes a menacing step forward.

There've only been a few times over the past five years when I've seen Giles and been afraid of him, when I've been so sure that the couple stories I have heard about Ripper are completely and unequivocally true.

Right now, this moment, the look he's giving Spike…this is one of those times.

"You _claimed_ her?" He all but snarls, reaching right around me, as if I'm not even here, and fisting the black cotton of Spike's t-shirt in his hand.

I have a sudden, horrible flashing image of Spike crumbling into dust, into nothing, at my feet. The notion sends my chest tightening, stomach churning in a way it never has before.

"Giles," I start to say, but neither of them are listening to me, two pairs of different shades of blue narrowed, glued to each other.

"No," Spike growls vehemently, leaning forward slightly, further into Giles's grip instead of further away. "I didn't _claim_ her, you git."

I frown, looking back and forth between the two of them.

 _Claim?_

They continue to stare at each other for a second longer before Spike reaches up, taking my Watcher's wrist in his hand and extricating his t-shirt from his grip, shoving his arm aside.

This is so not how I wanted this to go.

"Forgive me if I don't choose to believe you, Spike," Giles spits, the vampire's name venomous on his tongue.

They glare at each other.

"Look," the vampire hisses, eyes narrowing further still. "I bit the Slayer, yeah? But there was no _claim_." His eyes shift over toward mine, and something flashes in them. I don't have time to place it before he's turning back toward Giles again. "Know better than that, don't I?"

Giles is still fuming, still looking very Ripperish, but he doesn't look _quite_ as murderous as he had a moment ago. And I don't see him reaching for a stake, so that's a thing.

A very good thing.

I feel the muscles in my shoulders, the ones I hadn't realized were so incredibly tense, relax slightly.

But I have a question of my own, now.

"What's a claim?" I ask, looking first at Spike, and then to Giles. But the two of them are still staring each other down, practically pretending that I don't exist.

When a full minute ticks by and neither of them makes a move to answer me, I sigh, rolling my eyes up to the ceiling.

"Is this still about the bite?" I ask, frustrated. With the two of them, and with myself.

Spike had been right before when he'd suggested the bite mark should have come after the explanation.

It would have saved us some time.

I grimace, remembering the little word vomit fiasco from a moment ago.

And kept me from saying all of _that_.

"Yes."

It's Giles who answers me, reluctantly looking away from Spike, turning his steely eyes on me.

I frown, thinking through what that means, shaking my head.

"You think the bite is the reason for us being all with the connected?"

"Yes."

It's Spike who answers me this time, shifting his eyes away from Giles and back toward me. I look at him, watching as a s low, small smirk curves his lip. "'S _exactly_ what he thinks."

So whatever a claim is, it involves a bite. And includes some kind of connectedness.

But it isn't, apparently, what's going on between us. According to Spike.

I frown deeper, looking back over to Giles.

"Yeah, no," I say, folding my arms up over my chest. "That can't be right. The bite came after the…" I trail off, searching for a better word, finally deciding on the same one, "feeling." I consider it, going over the timeline, what I know of it at least, one more time in my head. " _Way_ after."

"Couple'a weeks after," Spike agrees with me, mimicking my pose, folding his own arms over his chest.

Across from me, Giles is starting to look less angry and more perplexed. His brows draw together as I watch him, his eyes shifting down, toward the floor.

"What are you implying?" He asks finally, reaching up, removing his glasses. "That…" He frowns, gesturing toward the mark on my neck with distaste, " _that_ is an effect of this assumed connection between the two of you-"

I cut him off, words rushing out on instinct before I can stop them.

"It's not _assumed_ ," I say quietly, so quietly it's almost to myself. I reach up, unconsciously touching the bared skin just below the bite wound on my throat.

"What?" Giles asks, turning his body toward me.

"It's not…I'm not _assuming_ anything," I explain, dropping my hand away from the mark, glancing sideways at Spike. "There's a connection."

Giles opens his mouth to say something, maybe to dismiss my claim, argue with me, I don't know.

But he stops short, his mouth slowly closing again as he looks at me. I watch his eyes travel from me over to Spike, who's still standing beside me, still partially shield by the curve of my shoulder.

Giles tilts his head to the side and looks back at me, and something passes over his face. Some dim recognition, like he's seeing something, remembering something for the first time.

He sighs, his lips coming to form a thin, serious line.

"And that's what you wanted to talk about tonight?"

Beside me, Spike snorts.

"Well, _yeah_ ," he says, as if it should be obvious.

The muscles in my shoulders tense up again, preparing for the two of them to pick up where they'd left off a moment ago.

They don't.

Thankfully, this time, Giles seems to ignore him. He's staring at me differently now, studying my face. He takes a step toward me.

"Alright," he says finally, casting one sideways, scathing glance at the bleached vampire next to me before meeting my eyes again. Then he nods. "Let's start at the beginning."

Relieved, hoping that the worst of all this is over, at least for tonight, I nod back.

The beginning. I can do that.

"It started with the dreams," I say, unconsciously turning toward Spike for affirmation. The movement doesn't go unnoticed by Giles, but he doesn't say anything this time.

Spike nods at me, chiming in with his own murmured, "Nightmares."

 _Nightmares_. He's reminding me. Even now, he's making the distinction.

I fight the urge to smile at him, but can't help it.

"Right," I say, turning back to Giles, who's looking between the two of us with an unreadable expression. "My dreams, Spike's nightmares."

Spike steps forward, moving out a little ways from behind me.

"Just found out about 'em last night," he adds, no doubt recalling the same conversation I am. "Slayer's dreams, I mean."

Was that really just last night? It feels like so much has happened since then.

Maybe because it has.

"Yeah," I agree quickly, thinking back to the night before last, when he'd been waiting in the basement, watching me. "Spike came to the house a couple nights ago because he, he _felt_ me, and—"

I'm stopped, cut off by Giles when he puts a hand out in front of him. I close my mouth again, blinking at him. I don't think either Spike or I realized how quickly we were talking, going through the information disjointedly, rapid fire, until this moment.

Now that it's dead silent again.

"Just…one moment," Giles says, turning away from us both, moving over toward the counter where the cash register sits.

Spike and I exchange a look, like neither of us know what to expect.

When Giles reaches the counter, he turns back around to face us. Seeing the quizzical expressions on our face, he sighs, gesturing down toward the locked cabinets below him.

"I think I have some scotch over here somewhere."

After that, things seem to slow down, calm down, a lot.

While I can tell that neither the vampire or the Watcher is particularly happy about being here, about the situation, about having to play nice, neither of them says anything about it again.

I think it's probably due to the scotch on Giles's part. I'm not sure exactly what it is on Spike's.

We move over to the research table, at least Giles and I do. We sit across from each other, and Spike positions himself over to my left, leaning languidly against the side of the bookshelf there.

I take my time explaining things now. Carefully, _very_ carefully, choosing my words as I explain what's been going on to Giles.

First, in as little detail as possible, about the dreams. How many, how often, how real they'd all felt. Spike only mentioned briefly the nightmares. He leaves out a lot, much more than he had when he'd talked to me about them last night.

And I let him.

If there are things he isn't wanting, isn't _willing_ , to share with Giles…I'm not going to be the one to force it.

He's already here with me when he doesn't have to be. And right now, that feels like enough.

Spike sits back and quiets down after the dream discussion, content to let me tell the rest of the story. Content, also, to let me leave out what I think I should, too.

I'm grateful.

I tell Giles about the sensing of each other, the knowing. How I'd _known_ Spike was out patrolling, even when he'd denied it. How he'd _known_ where I was, had stepped in, the night I'd had my issue with Rock of Ages.

It's only when we get back around to the dreams, the _second_ version of my dream, that I feel things starting to grow tense again.

Because we have to talk about the bite.

"And you just…let Spike bite you," Giles says, the words clearly a struggle for him. I can see it on his face, how unhappy this part makes him.

Not that I'd expected anything less.

He hadn't been happy when I'd let Angel bite me, either. Of course, that had been different.

I'd been doing it to save him.

And he'd almost killed me in the process.

"Well, yeah," I say, dropping my eyes down to to the table where my fingers are entwined, fidgeting. "But it was just a dream." I make a face, dropping my voice down a little lower. "That time."

I chance a look over at Giles, see him looking like he's about to say something. I don't want him asking me any questions about the circumstances of the bite.

Not yet.

So I start talking again, cutting him off before he can get any words out.

"But it was after I woke up that I really felt Spike for the first time," I say. "I knew he was standing outside, could feel him, without looking."

I turn to glance over at Spike, who's already staring at me. The amount of things he's heard me admit to tonight, things I've never even told him before. Things I remember, certain ways I'd felt, little tid bits here and there about the first time I'd run into him and had just known things. The fluttery, magnetic draw that had been there from the beginning.

That maybe, for all I know, has been there the whole time I've known him.

That's something I don't say out loud, but a thought that had crossed my mind throughout the night.

That there had always been something, _something_ , between the two of us. Maybe the reason we'd never been able to do it, kill each other.

Despite all the chances we'd had.

And looking at Spike now, for the first time since sitting down across from Giles and launching into the story, fixing my eyes to his. I have the thought again.

And as heady, as fierce as his gaze feels on me when it's just the two of us and we're alone, it's somehow magnified in this moment. Maybe because we aren't alone.

It kind of feels like we are when he looks at me like that.

"And you could feel Buffy, as well?" Giles asks, breaking my concentration.

I really had almost forgotten he was there.

I clear my throat awkwardly, turning my eyes away from Spike's just as he turns his eyes away from mine, both of us directing our gazes across the table.

"S'about right."

Giles nods, looking down. His hand is resting lightly around the glass of amber liquid in front of him.

"And all this began a few months ago?" he asks, not looking up.

Weeks. Months. Years.

Who knows, anymore?

I don't.

"The dreams did," I say, nodding.

I look back down at my hands, starting to pick absently at the light pink nail polish coating my nails.

"Do you remember when Willow helped me do that trancy thing?" I ask, looking up at him through my lashes. "The one to see spells?"

Giles looks at me again, and now his eyes are bright with recognition.

Like the question's sparked something he'd long ago forgotten.

"Yes," he says, sitting up a little straighter in his chair.

"That wasn't just about Mom."

A beat.

"You thought your dreams were some kind of spell?"

Giles looks dubious.

Spike has his eyebrow raised at me, too.

I sigh.

"Well, no…not exactly. But I was having them every night and they were just so _real_."

Giles leans back in his chair again, brow furrowed. "I can't think of any spell that would cause the both of you to have dreams of the other."

"I don't think I was just thinking of a spell. I thought maybe there might have been…something else, something… _controlling_ me or…"

As I'm talking, Giles suddenly sit straight up again. I frown, watching him get up from the table, walk around it. "But there wasn't anything…" He disappears behind the counter again.

I glance at Spike, who shrugs. I turn back toward the counter. "Giles?"

The only response is a muffled, banging sound, like he's digging around for something. I still can't see him.

"When you came to me, Buffy, after the incident with Dracula? I started looking for answers." I can hear the distant shuffling, like papers being shoved aside. "And I read…" A short pause, more shuffling, "something."

Giles reading something.

 _Doesn't really narrow much down._

When he emerges a moment later, he's holding what looks like a very old book in his hands. I've never seen it before.

"Part of the research I was doing to help you better understand what it means to be a Slayer." He moves around the counter again, pulling the book open. "It isn't a spell, exactly. Or at all really. But…what you just said reminded me." He holds the book flat in the palm of one hand as he walks back toward the table, thumbing through wispy, thin pages with the other. "Well, it's more of a theory."

It seems like a big jump to me, but I'm not going to argue.

Especially if it's a theory that explains what's been going on with us.

"Your power is, essentially, demon derived," he explains, looking up from the book briefly to meet my eyes before looking back down. He's talking faster now, more animatedly, and again I don't know if it's the scotch or something else. "In order to fight monsters, we…needed a monster of our own." He pauses, thinking, looks back up at me with an odd, sort of apologetic expression. "So to speak."

But if he's worried about me being offended, he's pretty far off base. He hasn't told me anything so far that I hadn't already known.

Which is what I tell him now.

"I already knew that, Giles," I say, folding my hands flat over each other in front of me on the table. I've scratched the the nail polish entirely off my pointer finger. "Sort of assumed that's what Dracula meant when he said the power in me is similar to his."

When he'd first seen me in the cemetery, first spoke to me. Called me a killer.

I shudder a little in my chair, remembering it.

"… _Your power so near to our own."_

It wasn't a secret then, either, that the Slayer line has demon in it. While it's never been something I've been totally comfortable with, I'd accepted it as just part of the package. Strength, speed, demon dust.

Something that was there, but not something _defining_.

It had only been after my run in with Dracula that I'd found myself actually wanting to know about it. Understand it. Use it to make myself stronger, make myself better.

"Yes, well," Giles says, glancing up at me, inclining his head to the side. "Similar might even be too weak a word."

This gives me pause.

I frown at him, watching as he opens the book in his hands up wide and lays it down on the table in front of me.

"The same…might be better. One half of the same."

 _One half of the same._

The words ring a distant bell in my head, like I've heard them before. The same, wiggy sense of knowing they should means something, that they do mean something, sends a tiny shiver down my back.

I lean forward slightly, looking down at the page he's indicated.

It's gibberish.

I frown, turning my eyes back up to him, eyebrow raised.

"Giles, I can't read that."

"I can," Spike says from beside me ,suddenly right there, leaning over me and toward the open book.

Giles and I both turn our eyes to him. He must feel it, because he pauses, turning his eyes up from the book but not moving.

"What?" He asks, sounding annoyed.

Giles clears his throat. "You read Latin?"

Spike rolls his eyes, a wry smirk curving his lips. "'Course I can read bloody Latin."

He says it like it should be obvious, like of course, we should have known. But I'm not sure how we would have known that. Even so, I find I'm impressed.

I'm struck again by how different Spike is, watching him, my eyes on the curve of his jawline. His lips move silently as he reads through the passage Giles has pointed out to us, the barest hints of specific words just barely audible under his breath.

When he reaches a certain point in the passage, though, he stops short.

I frown, glancing down at the page. As though suddenly I'll be able to read the words there.

"What?" I ask, looking back up at him. "What's it say?"

"Darkness and light," Spike says, frowning, turning to meet my gaze again. "It says it's the same demon, the same darkness, in you as there is in me." He looks back down to the page, placing a black polished nail at the center and reading, paraphrasing, "'One bending toward good and the other twisted toward evil, and either can choose to be neither, or both.'"

 _Whoa._

It isn't what I'd been expecting.

I shake my head. "So, the demon that makes the Slayer is…what? The same one that makes a vampire?" I ask, squinting down at the page, brow furrowed. "What does that have to do with our connection?"

 _Besides the obvious._

Spike takes a deep, unnecessary breath and turns back to the book, trailing his finger down a little ways until he finds what he's looking for.

"'Only if the two come together will the connection be made complete, becoming two halves of one whole'."

He finishes reading and turns to look at me again, something poignant, meaningful in his expression. I can tell looking at him that he's only paraphrased pieces of what he's read, that there's something else that maybe he isn't telling me.

Maybe not wanting to talk to me about.

I blink up at him.

And what he's just read seems so…convenient.

Still, I guess it makes sense, some kind of sense, as to why the connection between us seemed to get so much stronger after we kissed the first time.

And again, after that night at The Bronze.

And again, after the night we spent in my room.

Each time we've come together, each time I feel that magnetic pull toward him, the feelings have gotten more powerful. My ability to sense him, to _know_ him, stronger.

What it doesn't explain, the part that I'm not getting to fit in my head, is the part _before_ we'd first…"come together."

The dreams started weeks before that.

I turn and glance over my shoulder, looking toward Giles.

Why was he reading this anyway?

"You said you found this after the thing with Dracula?" I ask, still feeling confused.

He nods at me.

"This entire subsection is supposedly about how a Slayer might seek to understand her calling," Giles says, lifting the book into his hands again. "There's talk of…of a vein…ah, here." He clears his throat and reads."'When the warrior drinks from the pool of darkness, her eyes will be opened and the veil will be lifted—"

It happens again. That same note of understanding, of knowing it should mean something to me.

Maybe it's a Slayer thing, like we're…hardwired to know things, to want to understand what it is inside of us that makes us what we are.

"Vein of darkness…" I murmur, cutting him off mid-sentence.

I rack my brain, trying to figure out what it means. Why it feels familiar.

It sounds sort of lame, actually.

"I wasn't sure what it meant at first, myself," he says, and I can feel his eyes on my face even though I'm not looking at him, my eyes staring straight ahead of me. "I was going to do a little more digging before—"

He's still talking, but I'm not listening anymore. I'm distracted, brain muddled, taking in everything he's just paraphrased for me. What it means, how it could relate to what's happening between me and Spike.

Darkness and light.

Two sides of the same. Two halves of one whole.

The words are echoing, achingly familiar, but I can't place them. Don't know why I feel like they're so significant.

It's like it's right there on the tip of my tongue, at the edge of my mind, waiting for me to reach it. Hazy, like I'm looking for it through the fog.

I know it matters, that it would answer my questions, if I could just reach it.

Why the dreams started, the nature of them, what it was they were pointing me toward.

Though that feels obvious.

 _Spike._

The intense, moth to a flame-like draw I'd felt toward him so soon after the dreams began. That very same night, in fact. The night of the first dream, when I'd run into him in the cemetery. It had felt different with him then. Instantly, immediately.

I'd been drawn to him. To whatever it was, the part of him that matches my own darkness, the demon inside. The piece of him my Slayer had recognized, had wanted. Had demanded from him that night in the alley.

My head is spinning, stumbling over the rush of memories, struggling to place when and where and why this could have happened.

Vein of darkness.

And then it hits me, and everything stops spinning.

 _Dracula._

I'd never thought about it, if something could happen…if there could be consequences. It isn't like I'd ever tried it before, ever wanted to. I'm not even sure I'd wanted to when I did, or if it was all part of the thrall.

"You had this…this whole time?" I ask suddenly, feeling heat, anger flooding my chest as I twist in my seat to look up at Giles. "You read this, had it here this _whole time_ and didn't tell me?"

He looks like he isn't sure exactly what to say, lowering the book slightly.

"Well—"

"Giles, you had me sitting in here, staring at old Watcher's diaries and getting no where for _weeks_ ," I shout, putting my hands on the table and pushing myself to my feet.

Giles looks at me over the rim of his glasses, blinking. His brow furrows.

And I realize he has no idea why I'm so upset.

He blinks at me, brows drawn as he snaps the book closed, holding it in one hand and pulling his glasses off with the other.

"This was the first I'd ever read of anything like this, Buffy. I had no way of knowing if, if it was _true_ ," he gestures with his glasses off handedly between Spike and I, "or if it's something that even applies to your situation."

My anger fades a little as I realize that he's right. He didn't even know, had no way of knowing, that anything was going on between Spike and I when he'd read this.

Hadn't even considered it might be something I'd need to know.

Of course he wouldn't. Why would he?

I'd never told him, never told _anyone_ , about what happened that night in Dracula's castle.

I look at him again, gaze glued to his, and drop my voice down very low as I say, "I'm pretty sure I drank from the vein of darkness."

I watch as his eyes go very, very wide.

To my left, Spike groans.

"Am I the only _bloody_ one here who doesn't know what that means?" He asks, shoving away from the table frustratedly.

 _I guess it's time to talk about it._

"Dracula's blood," I say softly, my eyes still locked on Giles. I swallow hard, tearing my gaze from his, looking back down at the book in his hand. "He made me taste it."

" _What_?"

I wince. It's both of them this time, voices both loud, shocked, on either side of me. I'm caught like a deer in headlights, staring down, not looking at either of them.

Feeling very, very awkward. And a little nauseous.

"You're talking about a _literal_ vein," Giles says, sounding equal parts shocked and somehow still curious. He steps back a little was from the table. "I was thinking more...figurative."

I stare at him, blinking. "Not sure _now's_ the time for an English lesson."

"Right," Giles says, stammering a little. And then his expression darkens, and he leans forward to toss the book onto the table with a thud. "Buffy, how did this happen?" He shakes his head. "How could you be so thoughtless?"

My head snaps back toward him at that.

Thoughtless. _Thoughtless?_

How could I have been being _thoughtless_ when I didn't know at the time that there were thoughts I should have been having in the first place?

Or something.

"It's not like I knew something like this was going to happen," I say, throwing my arms up, heat flooding my cheeks again. I jab a finger toward him. " _You_ didn't even know it was a possibility until you read _this_." And I point down, jabbing my finger back toward the book, and the table.

Beside me, a low growl escapes the back of Spike's throat. I turn to look at him, and he's glowering, his eyes nearly black as they're narrowed directly on me.

"You drank Drac's blood?" He asks, his voice low, possessive.

A thrill races down my back.

"Only a little," I say dumbly, as if that makes it better. A beat. "It was gross?"

On my right, Giles clears his throat, drawing my attention back toward him.

"I think the taste is probably beside the point right now, don't you?"

I can still feel Spike behind me, muscles tense, vibrating with the same possessive anger I'd seen in his eyes, heard in his voice a moment ago.

I'm hyper aware of him.

But I try my best to stay focused on Giles, to answer the question he's asking me now. "How long after did your dreams start, Buffy?"

"Not long," I say, thinking back, shaking my head. "A week, week and a half maybe."

He frowns, turning to look just past me.

"Spike?"

No answer.

I turn around to find the vampire pacing, muttering something vague, incoherent under his breath. I can only catch a few of the words. _Bugger...fuck...sodding poofter._

I'm guessing we're still on the drinking Dracula's blood thing.

"Spike," I say softly, and he turns toward me immediately.

Even Giles seems surprised.

"What?" he asks, snarling a little, obviously annoyed that his pacing's been interrupted.

"Your nightmares," I begin, glancing over my shoulder at Giles, then back again. "When did they start?"

I watch as his brow furrows, the hard, angry lines around his lips and eyes softening the longer e looks at me.

"Oh, right," he mutters, looking down, thinking. "Uh…bout the same, I guess." He sighs, rolling his shoulders back and looking up at me again. "Started the day after I—"

"Tried to get the chip out," I finish for him, already knowing.

He'd said he always had dreams about killing me after every failed attempt. He'd tried to kill me that night, too.

The same night my dreams started.

We stare at each other for a long moment, probably wondering the same thing.

 _What the hell does all this mean?_

When Giles speaks again, breaking the silence, it's enough to make me jump.

Almost forgotten he was there again.

"Have the two of you been physical with each other?"

Spike's eyes go as wide as I'm sure mine do.

"What?" I ask, whipping my head back around to look at him. My throat's gone dry.

Giles looks back at me, the book open and in his hands once again.

"Simply what it says here." He puts his glasses back on, looking down. "'The two must _come together_ …'" He trails off, stopping, looking back up. "If there's been no…coming together…" He looks as uncomfortable saying it as I do hearing him say it. "Then we can safely assume this isn't what's happening."

I stare back at him, frozen. I have no idea what to say.

I only have two options.

Either lie about it, say no, and risk losing any further research help we might have gotten from Giles. Risk making Spike angry again.

I close my eyes briefly, seeing the look on his face, the way he'd almost looked like I'd betrayed him when I'd told him I'd planned to leave those details out.

I open my eyes again.

I could lie.

Or I could tell the truth.

"We…" I start to say, trailing off again, turning to look at Spike. I can't read the expression on his face, can't tell what it is he wants me to say. "I mean, if by _physical_ you mean…" I fade out, turning back around to look at Giles. I swallow hard. "I…"

"Just the bite, mate," Spike says quickly, suddenly, cutting me off. His voice is much louder than mine had been.

I blink, dazed, turning over my shoulder to look at him again.

But he isn't looking at me. His indigo eyes are open, calm, fully focused on the older man across the table from us.

Giles looks unconvinced.

"Just the bite," he repeats flatly, eyeing us both from over his glasses.

Spike takes a step forward, coming up directly beside me.

"Physical enough, innit?" He sniffs, reaching up and running a hand through his hair, shrugging. "Not much that's more intimate for us vamps, anyway."

Casual. Cool.

The opposite of what I'd been a moment ago.

And I'm too grateful for what he's doing to question it, to wonder why he suddenly cares that I don't want to tell. That I'm not ready to tell.

Of course it could have nothing to do with me. It could just be what we'd talked about before, how there's no good version of the story that doesn't end in dust.

But I have a feeling that isn't it.

A feeling that gets stronger when suddenly, beneath the cover of the table where I'm sure Giles can't see, Spike reaches for my hand. Cool fingers wrap around mine and he squeezes once, letting go again just as quickly.

He still isn't looking at me.

Across from us, Giles makes a face.

"I'd very much like not to hear anymore about your intimacy, Spike," He murmurs snidely, but he looks more convinced now than he had a moment ago.

The room falls weirdly silent again.

I watch as Giles looks back down at the book in his hands. He flips a couple pages forward, frowning, then flips back. He sets it down on the table and puts his hands on his hips.

"Oh, dear."

 _Guess that's a yes._

"So…the thing you two read about in there," I say, gesturing toward the book. "It's happening."

Giles looks up at me again, shaking his head. "We don't know anything for certain yet—"

"It's happenin'," Spike interjects.

His tone is flat, knowing, and I glance at him as he he turns to pace away from the table.

I frown, watching him for a minute before turning back to Giles.

"But what does it mean?" I ask, pointing out the question that's on my mind, that's on Spike's.

I'm not sure if it's on Giles's, but I'm not that concerned about it.

We know the what, but not the why.

Giles frowns, nodding. "What indeed," he muses, flipping the pages again. He sighs, exhaling through his nose. "And why Spike?"

"Oi," the vampire speaks up again, from somewhere behind me and to the left. "Why _not_ Spike?"

Giles ignores him in favor of answering his own question.

"I suppose he's the only vampire you've had regular, constant contact with since the night with Dracula." He looks up from the book, eyes focused over my shoulder. "That might be why it's him and not, say, Angel."

Spike growls again, and I can sense him stepping forward.

"Watch it," he murmurs, his voice dangerously low.

It brings another flash, another memory to mind. The night of Willow's spell, the engagement. Sitting on Giles's sofa, asking him to give me away.

"… _But you guys weren't crazy about Angel at first—"_

" _You aren't gonna say that name."_

He'd said it the same way he'd spoken a moment ago. He'd been jealous, then, because of the spell.

He's jealous now because…well, because he's jealous.

I can feel it rolling off of him, rumbling toward me in waves from behind. And despite the tenseness of our situation, the seriousness of the topic we're discussing now, I find it makes me feel warm.

I get the distinct feeling from the wry, smug curve of a smirk on Giles's face that he's said Angel's name both because he's genuinely curious as to why it wouldn't be him, and also because he knows the way Spike feels about him.

I turn around, meeting the vampire's narrowed eyes as I do. I raise my eyebrows at him pointedly.

His shoulders relax, and he steps back, no longer in a lunging position.

But he looks just as angry, just as frustrated, the lines around his eyes are hard. Like he's just as frustrated at what Giles has said as he is at his reaction to it, like he doesn't _want_ to feel jealous.

I push the sinking, disappointed feeling that's settled in my gut aside, opting to ignore it and turn around once more.

"You think that's the only reason?" I ask Giles, referring to what he'd said a moment ago.

Because I don't think it is.

"I'll have to do some more research." He glances away from me, toward Spike. "We might need to test a few things."

Apparently, this isn't what Spike wants to hear.

He chuckles, but not like he really finds any of this funny.

"And there's no mention of this sodding…" he waves his hand at the book, "two halves of one whole thing anywhere else?"

Giles frowns. "Not that I've found."

"Brilliant," Spike growls, turning his back on me again. "Just bloody _brilliant_."

I watch as he whirls away again, resuming his pacing, moving further down away from the table and out into the main space of the store.

I get that same sinking feeling in my stomach again, the one I'd gotten a moment ago after the Angel comment.

It's nothing really new, I guess. Not like I would have expected Spike to be thrilled by the news that we're possibly somehow inextricably linked.

I just hadn't expected the fact that he _isn't_ thrilled by it to feel like it hurts so much.

"Okay," I say, turning back to Giles, chewing on my bottom lip. "Okay. So we research, then. We test the connection, we figure out what all this means." I shake my head, sucking in a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

And when the words leave my lips, my voice dropping low, quiet, I almost can't believe I'm saying them.

"This doesn't have to be a, a _bad_ thing."

And the way Giles is looking at me now, like I've sprouted wings and taken flight, tells me he can't believe it either.

"Buffy," he whispers, leaning in much closer to me. "If what this book says is true, then you're…you're more than just _connected_ with Spike. It's more than the two of you just being able to sense one another." He reaches out and grips my arm, lowering his voice even more. "You're a _part_ of each other. Intertwined."

I blink at him, nodding.

We've been over this.

"Two halves. One whole," I say glibly. "I get it."

He leans away from me, frowning so deeply I swear the lines will be permanently etched into his face if he doesn't stop soon.

"Do you?"

And the way he's said, the gravity of it, hits me. Possibly for the first time all night I actually realize what it is in that book, what we've read. What I've done, started, by taking the offering of Dracula's blood.

I turn my eyes toward Spike, to find that he's stopped pacing, that he's looking back at me now. Even from this distance I can see it, the look on his face. Almost pained, torn.

Like there's a part of him that's blaming me for this situation we've found ourselves in, and another part of him that hates himself for doing it.

That he's realized what I just have. That he could be tied to me, a part of me. The Slayer.

Possibly forever.

I swallow, a lump forming in the back of my throat.

And suddenly I don't feel so sure.


	23. Chapter 22

When we leave the Magic Box Giles is still there, pouring over the pages of the book we've been reading, a fresh glass of scotch to keep him company. I'd only half-heartedly offered to stick around a little longer, see what else we might be able to turn up. Giles had said no. Either he could see how little use I would be to him or he could see how majorly close my brain already was to exploding. I hadn't been sure, but I'd been thankful either way. I'd stopped just briefly on my way out the door, waiting for Spike to be out of earshot before I'd asked Giles to please not say anything to anyone else yet, and he'd agreed very quickly not to. Something about thinking it best to hold off until we know just a little bit more.

"And Buffy?" Giles had said, making me pause, turning back around in the doorway to look at him. "Do be careful."

All night, he'd been looking at me with these strange expressions. Mixtures of disbelief, confusion, disappointment. But when he'd told me to be careful, the only thing I'd seen in his eyes had been concern.

I'd just nodded and left.

And now we're here, twenty minutes later, and Spike is walking me home. Or he's at least walking with me toward my house. I'd never thought there was much of a distinction between the two, and I guess it's probably mostly about intention. I catch myself wondering which it is he's doing a couple times as we walk quietly down the sidewalk, slowly, side by side.

I haven't known what to say.

Apart from when I'd first caught up with him behind the shop. I'd mumbled some sort of stilted, stammering thank you to him for not ratting me out to Giles on the whole "being physical" thing.

"Didn't just do it for you," he'd said, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his duster and sniffing. He'd paused then, glancing down at me hooded eyes, and added "You're welcome."

It had broken the immediate tension between us, the awkwardness, but things had still been strained for a little while. Even if there wasn't a connection between us, I'm sure I still could have felt all the indecision from him. Indecision and frustration, still tiny hints of the jealousy that had been so strong before, and this intense feeling I kept getting that there was something, something important, he wanted to either ask me or tell me...but I hadn't been able to put my finger on it.

And I'd had questions of my own on my mind.

About claims. About what would have been so bad about it if that had been what was going on. If it's anything like what's happening to us now. What else Spike read in that book, what made him stop reading. How he's feeling about all of this.

Whether or not what I thought I was getting from him back at the Magic Box is actually what he's thinking.

The only problem with asking him any of these questions is that there isn't a single one that won't give _me_ away. That won't immediately let him know how I'm feeling about it all.

We've crossed a lot of lines with each other over the past couple weeks, and more in the last few days than I would have thought possible. Talking about our feelings, a different kind than the ones we've been discussing all night, isn't one of them.

Our feelings for each other.

Because they've changed. We both know it. Pretending, denying that they have at this point would be stupid. And make moving forward, figuring out what all of this means for _us_ , that much more difficult.

So even though I'm not exactly in a huge rush to just put myself out there, I also know that it's something that needs to be dealt with. Needs to be talked about, addressed, before we go any further. If we _want_ to go any further. Especially before anyone else finds out what's happening. There'll be enough confusion after that without Spike and I getting in our own way.

 _Which we kind of seem to do a lot._

It's with this thought in mind that I take a deep breath and open my mouth, not sure what it is I'm going to say, but needing to say _something_ , when Spike beats me to it.

"Know what I'm _still_ havin' trouble wrappin' my lobes around?" He asks, shifting his eyes over toward me, lips pursed just slightly. Sounding like he's fighting very hard for control.

I frown, not sure by the tone of his voice if I really want to ask. "What?"

"Why…" he pauses, turning his eyes up to the night sky, " in the bloody, buggering _hell_ you would _ever_ think drinking the Prince Poofter's blood would be a good idea."

I wrinkle my nose up. I had a feeling this would be coming up again.

I sigh, looking away from him, rolling my eyes up to the stars the same way he had a moment ago. "For the last time, I didn't _drink_ it." My eyes shift back toward him again. "I _tasted_ it." I make a face. "And it wasn't exactly a choice."

"Right," Spike drawls, sarcastic, chuckling. The sound just the tiniest bit bitter. "Because you were under his _thrall_ , weren't you?"

I look at him, raising both my eyebrows. "You don't think I was?"

The muscle in his jaw tics, clenching. "I think you're smarter than that."

He isn't looking toward me, but staring straight ahead. I can see the giveaways on his face. The pursed lips, the tight jaw, the lines around his eyes. And that's when I realize what it is. The feeling that's been coming off him, the weird indecision, the torn expression on his face.

He's angry. He's angry at me, and not really because of the situation we're in, but because of what I've done.

"Does it really matter now _why_ I did it?" I ask, not used to this, not used to Spike being angry with me. Or I guess that's not true. I've been on the receiving end of his rage more times than I can count. But this feels different than that.

This feels like...disappointment.

Spike nods, the same cool expression unmoving on his face. "Probably not."

It grows silent between us again.

I don't like that he's being so quiet, so cold, but I do notice that the twisty feeling that had burrowed its way into my stomach earlier in the night is starting to fade a little. While I still don't know, can't quite tell exactly what he's thinking, I'd rather have him be disappointed in me than be angry with our situation.

Because I can apologize for things that I've done, unknowingly or not. But I can't really undo them.

"At least now we know what's happening," I murmur finally, breaking the silence as we turn the corner onto the sidewalk that lines Revello Drive.

"Yeah," Spike says dryly, shifting his eyes over toward mine. "Just don't know what it means."

Now is one of those times where I wish I could read his mind the way he's always been able to read mine.

"Sure we do," I say, trying for light and landing on slightly squeaky. "Like that claim thing, right?" I frown, reconsidering. "Only, ya know, not."

It's only after I've said it, bringing up the whole claim thing, that I realize I've probably given myself away a little. At the very least, I've let him in on what it is I've been fixating on the whole time we've been walking.

We come to a stop on the sidewalk, directly in front of my house.

"No, pet," Spike says, sighing, turning his body toward me. I turn to face him, too, and when I meet his eyes he's looking down at me with a much softer expression than before. The feeling in my stomach fades a little more. "Not like a claim."

We stand there facing each other, the gravity of what we've found out tonight hanging heavily between us. My fingers itch where they rest at my sides, wanting to reach up and touch him. Put my hands on his face and pull him down to me, stare in his eyes until I _can_ read his mind. Suddenly the not knowing, not knowing what he's thinking, not having answers to my own questions, seems like the most important thing in the world.

And I forget about not wanting to give myself away.

"Well, it's not like I'd know," I say, letting a hint of my own frustration into my voice, glancing away from him and folding my arms over my chest. "Nobody's bothered to explain it to me."

I feel rather than hear him sigh, and then he turns away from me, moving up the cement pathway up to the front porch.

"Not much worth explainin'," he says, waiting just a second to make sure I'm following him before he continues. "'S just...it's a vampire thing."

He stops when we reach the bottom of the porch, spinning around and dropping down onto the middle step in a movement that's somehow both graceful and casual.

And it's weird. The words he's saying, the way he's talking, make it sound like he _isn't_ wanting to talk about it. But his body language, the way he's looking up at me now, makes me think the opposite.

I wonder why.

I come to a stop in front of him, arms still folded, frowning.

"Meaning?"

He exhales loudly through his nose, turning his eyes away from mine and focusing on something far away, out in the yard.

"Meaning," he says, drawing the word out, "that s'not somethin' that should matter to you."

The tiny hint of frustration I'd felt a second ao blossoms in my chest, heat rising in my cheeks. It's my turn to purse my lips.

I look down at him, nodding slowly.

"Well, apparently it should matter to me a _little_ …" Sarcasm. I turn around and sit down on the step beside him, our shoulders almost touching but not quite. "Or weren't you listening?" I unfold my left arm so I can gesture in between our bodies. "Us being all with the sameness."

I shift my gaze toward him so I can see his face out of the corner of my eye. I'm just in time to see the small, wry smile that ghosts one corner of his mouth.

"Got me there," he says, giving me a sideways glance.

"So, what's the deal then?" I ask, refolding my arms and leaning them both down onto my knees, pressing my chest into them. "Why was Giles so wigged?"

Spike chuckles, shaking his head. It's a genuine sound this time, no sign of the bitterness from before.

All the awkwardness from our walk home seems to have melted away now. The last little bit of tension in my belly melts away with it.

"Why so curious about claims, Slayer?" He asks me, shifting slightly so he's not facing straight forward anymore, but so his knees are angled more toward mine.

It's a good question.

Why _am_ I so curious about claims?

Apart from not liking that both Spike and Giles seemed to know a lot more about them than I do, apart from the fact that the idea of Spike claiming me had obviously been majorly upsetting to Giles, I can't put my finger on exactly what it is I'm wanting him to tell me. What it is I want to know.

Or I'm in denial over it.

I think it over for a minute, blinking out into the front yard. My eyes fall on the tree. The big one that stands right below my bedroom window. It's funny that somehow over the course of the last few weeks it's become linked in my mind with Spike. Like it's his tree, in a way.

I guess it's actually been a lot of people's trees. Mine, when I used to have to sneak in and out of the house for patrol. Angel's, when we'd been together. Especially early on.

But as I look at it now, I'm having a hard time separating it from the bleached blonde sitting beside me. From where I'm sitting, I can even see the few cigarette butts that dot the little dirt patch where the grass ends at the trunk of the tree. Probably still there from that week he spent hounding me for answers every night.

Or maybe other times, too. The night I'd had that dream.

It's only when Spike clears his throat and I look back at him, seeing his raised eyebrow, that I realize I still haven't answered him.

 _Right._

"What did you mean when you said you knew better than to claim me?"

Because I think that's really it, what I've been thinking about. What's been bothering me.

It isn't that I'm curious about claims, or _just_ curious about claims. It's that I'm wondering what would have been so bad about _him_ claiming _me_.

 _Specifically._

Which is…well it's something.

Spike looks about as surprised by my question as I'd expected him to be, because it isn't really an answer to what he'd asked me but a whole new thing all together.

"We were in the same room, yeah?" He leans slightly away from me, both dark brows up now, blinking. "You saw the Watcher's reaction."

I frown.

Is that it? He knew better because he knew what Giles, and by extension, the rest of the gang, would think about it?

I'm not sure if it's the answer I'd been hoping for, but I'm not really disappointed by it either.

Unless I'm completely wrong about what a claim is, and it isn't a connection at all but is some like, super evil thing.

"So…a claim is bad then," I say, testing that out, watching him carefully. I'm studying his face so I can clearly see his reaction, his brows drawing together, shaking his head.

"No, it…oh, bloody hell." Spike does that thing where he rolls his eyes, clenches his jaw. Like whatever he's about to say is something he'd really not wanted me to hear. "A claim…is a connection. And a bloody powerful connection, at that." He looks back at me. "Like…marriage, maybe." He [pauses meaningfully. "Only it lasts forever."

 _Oh._

Well, that's pretty much what I'd guessed it to be. Some kind of strong connection, or a blood bond. Something having to do with vamp bites.

All things I'd been able to gather from context clues.

Only not the last part.

 _Forever._

Kind of surprised Giles didn't stake him right away.

It takes me a minute to realize Spike's still staring at me, watching my profile through his lashes, head titled slightly to the side.

Waiting, I'm sure, for a response from me.

I clear my throat, turning my face toward him.

"Vamps don't believe in divorce, huh?" I say lightly, but my voice still carries a little of the weight from what I've just realized.

I'd asked Spike what he meant when he said he knew better than to claim me, and he'd given m a reason. But he hadn't said anything about what a claim is. Nothing about it being a forever thing. Nothing about being tied to _me_ forever.

He'd given me a reason, and it hadn't been at all what I'd expected. What I'd been thinking the whole time on our walk here.

Something warm starts to spread through my chest, up my neck, into my cheeks. Not frustration this time. A soft, tingling blush.

Spike notices the color rising in my cheeks. I know he does, because his eyes shift away from mine and over to my flushed skin.

He doesn't say anything about it.

Instead, he just nods, turning back around to face forward. His eyes are distant.

But his shoulder is pressing into mine now.

"'S a bit old fashioned," He says, answering my joke of a question. When he takes another deep breath in, the leather of his duster makes a faint, cracking sound beside my ear where his shoulder meets mine.

It's so incredibly still where we are, so quiet, the only real light coming from the tiny sliver of moon, the stars, and the lamp light filtering out onto the porch from the table beside the sofa in the living room behind us.

"And a mutual claim is unbreakable."

I blink and turn toward him, not expecting to meet his eyes when I do. But he's looking at me, head tilted, inclined slightly downward so he can see my face fully.

Unbreakable.

Forever.

Big, big words. Big, meaningful words that I don't really know what to do with right now.

You'd think after everything we'd read tonight, everything we'd discussed with Giles, that this wouldn't seem so overwhelming.

But it's the way he's looking at me. Letting the gravity of what he's saying hit me, watching it play out across my face.

"Unbreakable, as in…can't be broken?" I ask, and my voice sounds small. "Like ever."

Spike smirks at me, nodding, his eyes scanning my face. They drop down and linger over the still exposed mark on my throat before he turns and looks forward again.

"That's the idea, yeah."

It feels like something important just happened, some mutual understanding's passed between us.

I swallow. "Oh."

A moment passes, a beat or two.

Then, "Is it similar at all?"

Spike turns back to me. His eyes are bright, searching mine.

"Similar to what?" He asks, watching me carefully.

"Similar to what's happening," I say softly, keeping my eyes locked on his.

I leave the rest of it open ended, but it's obvious.

 _With us._

There is an us.

"I dunno." Spike leans back, propping his elbows back on the porch, rubbing gently against my arm when he does. "I've never…" He drags his eyes away from me, looking out into the street. "Don't have much experience with claims. There's the connection, which is probably…" He shakes his head. "But claims don't…they don't make you _one_."

He looks back toward me now, looking up into my face, and this close I can see how pale blue his irises look in the light from the moon.

"And that _is_ what's happening with us," I say simply, matter-of-factly.

Spike nods. "Guess so."

I take a deep breath, surprised by how shaky it sounds when I let it out again. I drop my eyes away from him, focusing on my feet, counting the stitches that go across the side of my boot.

I'd scolded Spike the other morning over the weird mixed signals, all the misunderstandings, miscommunications. Intentional or not.

 _We don't have time for that_ , I'd said. We have even less time now. If this thing between us is as big a deal as Giles seems to think it is, then we only have so much time before we'll have to come clean to the rest of the Scoobies.

And if we're going to do that, if we're going to make it through all this with our sanity, without any blood spillage or dust endings, we have to be together in this. Not just together, but on the same side.

So I force myself to ask, because I need to know the answer.

"And that bothers you?"

When he doesn't immediately respond, I make myself look up at him through the cover of my lashes.

He's staring at me with veiled eyes that I can't read and a very slightly furrowed brow.

"What makes you say that?" He asks, not sounding at all confused, but more like he's glad I've asked the question.

I manage a small shrug. "Just a feeling."

There's another pause as he watches me, biting down lightly on the swell of his bottom lip. Thinking of what he wants to say next.

And then he sits up, using his elbows as leverage so he's directly beside me again, shoulder to shoulder.

"Does it bother _you_?" He asks, leaning a little closer to me. His shoulder presses more firmly into mine, the tips of our knees just barely touching where they're angled toward each other.

And he's looking at me in _that_ way.

Like he knows the next thing I say is going to be something defining, a line in the sand.

The closest either of us have come to admitting to feeling anything other than just connected.

So even though he hasn't answered me, "No."

I say it softly, testing it out, turning the word around on my tongue. Feeling how honest an answer it is. Honest, but not complete. Like there's something more I should be saying. I just don't know what.

"Maybe it should," I say, continuing on. "But it…" Shaking my head, exhaling. "No."

Spike nods, turning away from me again. "Might just be 'cause of the connection, pet."

"Yeah," I agree numbly, but I kind of doubt it. "Maybe."

And then I put my hands on either side of me, pushing myself to a standing position and stepping up onto the main landing of the porch.

When he doesn't follow, stays seated, I wait about a half second longer before I sigh and turn toward the door.

It's been a long night. Long, _long_ night, and Dawn's been here by herself.

I should get inside. Make sure she's found something to eat, and if she hasn't, I should…

"Buffy."

I freeze with my hand halfway to the knob, turning to look over my shoulder. Spike's on his feet now, facing me, his face more open, more vulnerable than I've ever seen it.

Instinctively, without thinking, I drop my hand from the door knob and turn back around, stepping toward him.

If I'd been more aware, more focused on the moment, I would have recognized it for what it was. A reversal of the moment the other night, in my kitchen.

We stare at each other, separated by only about two feet. When he speaks again, his voice is very soft. Insistent.

"Why do you think it's me?"

I'm not exactly sure what he's talking about.

"What?" I ask, pulling my jacket tighter around me.

"Before," he begins, starting to walk toward me, closing the space between us. "When you were talking to Giles. He said it was just cause I'm, ya know, _around_." He stops right in front of me, so close I have to tilt my head back so I can keep eye contact with him. He narrows his gaze on mine. "Is that what you think?"

It's silent between us for a long minute while I think about what I want to say. What's true, what do I want to be true. Trying to read him.

"No," I whisper finally, the word escaping on an exhale. My eyes drop to his lips, gliding slowly back up his face until I'm staring into the swirling azure again. "That's not what I think."

Spike reaches toward me, the tips of his fingers grazing my collarbone, continuing upward, over my shoulder, pushing the curtain of my hair aside as he does.

Until the curve of my throat, my neck, is laid bare before him. He trails the tips of his fingers slightly up the side of my neck, along the underside of my jaw and back down again, until he comes to the mark.

His mark.

"'S not what I think, either," he whispers, his voice husky now as he brushes over the bite with his thumb, looking back at me again.

A powerful jolt shoots down my left side, stronger than the one I'd felt a couple days ago in the hospital when the scarf had grazed it. Leaving me dazed, a little winded.

"G-good," I say. I can't think of anything else.

Spike doesn't seem to mind.

"Yeah," he says back.

I pause for a minute before I reach up, putting my palms flat on his chest, finding the patch of cotton in between the lapels of his duster. I look down briefly, focusing on my fingers, how neatly my hands fit side by side in the space I've carved out for them.

Like they belong there.

The question is out before I can stop it.

"Where do we go from here?"

Spike doesn't answer me right away. Technically, he doesn't answer me at all. What he does do is lean forward, and I instantly let my eyes fall shut, waiting for the soft pressure of his lips against mine. Craving it.

It doesn't come.

Instead, I feel the gentle touch of his lips against my forehead, right at the edge of my hair line.

It's so delicate, and simple, and incredibly intimate. I think he's told me more with this one simple gesture than he has with his words all night. No question I could ask, no answer he could give, could be more telling in this moment than his lips against my skin.

It says so many things all at once.

I'm here.

I'm not leaving.

We're in this together.

And I melt against him, letting him soak up all the anxiety I'd been feeling earlier, everything that's left, all of the unknowns we still have left to face.

It feels like we've climbed a mountain tonight. Today. The roller coaster of ups and downs is staggering to me.

And I'm suddenly just so _tired_.

"Why don't you pack it in," Spike whispers against my skin, his lips still resting lightly on my forehead. His breath is cool fanning across my hairline. "Must be knackered."

"If knackered is British for tired," I mumble, comfortable, not wanting to move. "Then that's true."

I feel his mouth curve up into a smile. "Mmmhm."

"What about you?" I ask, leaning forward, stifling a wayward yawn with the back of one of my hands.

I don't think even I know what I mean. If I'm simply asking him where he's going, how he'll spend the rest of night. Or if I'm asking him to come inside. Spend the night with me, help me sleep.

The way he had last night.

"I'm…well," Spike clears his throat. "I was gonna do a quick sweep."

He leans away from me then, tilting his head back far enough so he can look down into my face. He gestures with an inclination of his head back in the direction of Restfield. "Of the cemeteries."

I step a little ways back from him, dropping my eyes to my hands. I let my fingertips trail over his t-shirt, mid-way down to his stomach before I finally pull them away, bringing my hands back down to my sides.

"You know you don't have to do that," I say, eyes still down. I shake my head. "I can go now, be back before—"

Spike shushes me. Actually shushes me, the first time I think anyone's shushed me since I was in like, the fifth grade. It brings my gaze back up to his, both my eyebrows raised.

He just shakes his head, stepping further back toward the porch stairs. "You have other things to think about, yeah?" And his eyes shift meaningfully toward the house.

Dawn.

"Okay." I nod, stepping back closer to the door. "Okay. I'll...see you tomorrow."

There's probably no way around how weird it sounds. Both because of what I'm saying, and still, a little bit, because of who I'm saying it to. How easily, how casually the words roll off my tongue. Making plans, the same way I'd say it to Willow, or Xander.

Spike nods, smiling a little. "G'night."

I stand on the porch and watch him go, only turning to go inside once I can no longer see the distant beacon of white blonde hair.

I stop briefly to make sure the back door is shut, locked, then wander through the lower level, flipping off lights as I go.

When I reach my bedroom, I take the time to change. Slipping out of my jacket and jeans, throwing on a loose fitting t-shirt and crawling into the mess of sheets, the tangle of my comforter. They're all still haphazard, twisted on the bed where they'd been left the last time I'd slept here.

 _We'd_ slept here.

I lay down and press my face into the pillow, closing my eyes. It smells like him, like Spike. The whole room does almost, just like I'd figured it would. The scent of faded leather, smoke, faint hints of mint and soap.

I sigh, sinking deeper into the mattress, letting the weight of how tired I am relax my muscles.

And for the first time in months, I sleep entirely through the night.

"I don't know, Buffy," Mom says from behind me, probably staring at the bandage on her head in the little hand mirror the nurse had given her. It's what she's been doing all morning.

That, and ignoring me every time I tell her how good she looks, 'especially for someone with a hole in her head'.

"I think I'll look like I have a cat on my head."

I smile, turning back around to face her, holding the long curling blonde wig in my hands.

"But a very well-groomed cat," I say lightly, holding it out to her for better inspection.

Mom eyes it warily for a moment, one eyebrow raised as high as she can with the bandage partly covering her forehead. She finally looks back at me and shakes her head, wincing a little at the movement.

"I think maybe I'll stick with a scarf."

She's had a brave face on for most of the day, especially earlier this morning when Dawn had been here, too. She'd been pretty groggy at first, but she'd still been Mom. Smiling, reaching out to both of us for hugs, ignoring the warnings from the nurse and insisting she was fine to sit up straight in bed.

The doctor's had told me she'd still be a little out of it today, that she probably wouldn't be completely herself for weeks still.

And I'd noticed it a few times.

Quick, little moments, here and there, when I can tell how uncomfortable she is. When she nods, or when she laughs. Even when something makes her smile just a little too wide.

But even with these moments, even with as tired as she looks, she doesn't look sick to me anymore. It doesn't really make sense, I know. Nothing outwardly has changed at all. Same hospital, same hospital gown, same IV's and beeping machines and trays full of wiggly green jell-o.

But knowing that there's nothing wrong. That the thing that had made her seem so fragile, so weak, even just a day ago, is gone. It makes all the difference.

She's here because she's recovering, not because she's sick.

"Scarves are good," I say, then remembering the scarf I have tied around my own neck, add, "scarves are _totally_ in right now."

I look down at the wig in my hands, look back up at Mom and grin. "But wigs are fun. We can get you a whole bunch of different ones." I look down, running my fingers through some of the nylon strands of the wig. "You know, you can be, like, Sixties Mom, Action Mom…" I pause, looking up at her coquettishly, wiggling my hips a little, "French Maid Mom…"

Mom smiles, setting the hand mirror down on the hospital bed in front of her.

"I must be getting better," she says lightly, a teasing gleam in her eye that's been missing for weeks, "'cause you're making fun of me."

My smile falls just a little, softening around the edges.

"Well, you know," I say, taking the wig back between my hands and stepping forward, crossing the space to her. I tuck my leg up underneath me and sit down on the end of the bed. "Got a lot of time to make up for."

Mom looks at me in that all knowing, stomach warming Mom way and puts her hand out on top of mine.

"You have more important things to make up. I know you've been missing a lot of school," she says pointedly, eyeing me, knowing as well as I do that I'm missing even more school as we speak.

I just can't get myself to care.

"I may have to take a few incompletes," I tell her simply, dismissively, laying the wig down on the bed. "But I…" I inhale, exhale slowly, "will make it through the semester."

 _Probably._

"Well, what about slaying and your friends?" Mom asks, leaning back a little, pressing her back into the mountain of pillows behind her. She looks at me for a long moment, studying my face. "I want you to have your life back."

The words carry with them a weight I'm not sure she's intended. After everything, everything over the past few days, weeks, months…what we found out last night. I don't even know what having my life back means.

It seems like so long since my life has really been mine. _Just_ mine.

I think it stopped being mine the day I was called.

I sigh, forcing another smile back onto my face.

"Right now I'd rather be here," I tell her, lifting the wig back up and petting it like its the cat Mom had mentioned earlier. "Styling your beautiful new plastic dream hair."

Mom nods, a small smile returning as she watches me.

"Fair enough, but you don't have to keep me company all night." She thinks about it for a minut before continuing. "Go out, have fun." She raises her hand up, like she's offering the idea to me on a plate, gesturing toward me. "I know Giles mentioned starting a new type of training on the way into the hospital yesterday."

It's true, he had. Some sort of new plan he'd been working on for me.

Which has now been rapidly replaced with doing research on Spike and I. We're supposed to meet back at the Magic Box tonight, after I finish patrol.

I'd been so close, _so close_ , to inviting Dawn to come along tonight, too. Not to patrol, but to the Magic Box afterwards.

I'm not sure why.

I think maybe I'd thought her being there would keep any sparks from flying between Vampire and Watcher. Or maybe I thought having her there would be like having an extra vote. Someone else to have on our non-freaked side.

In the end, I'd decided against it.

But she's definitely going to be there when we tell everyone else.

"Training can wait a day," I tell Mom now, flatly. Simply.

I want to tell her more, want to talk to her about the things that are happening. Things with me, with Spike. What we're having Giles look into. What it's been like with him recently, how much support he'd given me. I want to get her opinion on it all.

I want her to help me figure out exactly how and what I feel.

But I hold back.

She doesn't need to know all of that yet. Talk about information overload. It still feels like a lot, even for me, and I'm not the one who's had their skull drilled into recently.

Mom frowns at me, seeing, I'm sure, the different thoughts flickering across my face. "Buffy—"

"I'll get back into it," I say quickly, cutting her off, squeezing her hand. "I promise." I look down, sighing. "I just need a day to…bask." I pick the wig back and lean slightly toward her. "See, this is me," I smile at her over the top of the wig, "basking."

Mom doesn't look completely convinced. She eyes me carefully for a minute, watching me as I sit back up straight, absently smoothing the fabric of my skirt down.

Finally, she sighs, gives the tiniest shake of her head and smiles back at me.

"Alright," she says, reaching her hand out toward me again. "But I want to be Farrah Fawcett Mom."

"I thought about it," Spike says from beside me, twirling the stake in his hand as we wander through the cemetery.

He'd met me here, just inside the gates when I'd arrived about an hour ago.

There hadn't been any discussion about meeting, or even about him helping me with patrol again.

But I'd known he'd be there, and he'd obviously known the same.

It had been another slowish night, but Spike hadn't interfered when I'd claimed the coupled fledges for myself, staying out of my way, off to the side. Just watching me, azure eyes following me, burning into my every movement.

The slow, wicked smirk that had curved his lips afterwards had given me the feeling that he'd stayed aside as much for himself as for me.

But all's quiet now, and we're just walking, biding time until Giles closes down the Magic Box.

He'd called the house earlier to tell me that he'd had an idea, something he wanted to see about, but hadn't explained to me exactly what it was.

I'd told him I'd be up for anything as long as it didn't involve a pointy piece of wood.

Giles hadn't found that as funny as I had.

"About…what?" I ask Spike, glancing his direction.

When he doesn't answer right away, I sigh. "I know we're connected and everything, but you're gonna have to give me more than that."

He looks back at me, a curious look in his eye, and then he stops walking abruptly.

"Claiming you."

I stop walking, too, skidding to a halt and turning wide eyes on the vampire beside me.

Who's staring back at me with a sure, unapologetic expression on his face.

It's probably the last thing I'd been expecting him to say.

I thought about…not bleaching my hair. Switching to cow's blood. Redecorating the crypt.

All of these things and many, many more would have been closer to what I'd been expecting.

" _Claiming you."_

I think back to the night before, filing through everything he'd told me about claims. What they are, what they mean. Buzzwords flashing across my mind like slides. Things like _unbreakable_ , and _powerful_ and _forever_.

That's sort of the one that keeps popping up.

Spike takes advantage of my still, stunned silence, already talking again before I can form a coherent sentence.

"The night I bit you," he says, his eyes focused intensely on mine, "crossed my mind." He steps closer to me. "Just once, just like…a flash, or…" he stops talking, shaking his head, dropping his eyes down to the grass at his feet. I watch him as he inhales through his nose, letting the words slip out on the exhale. "But I thought about it."

I'd asked him last night if it bothered him. The connection with me, what it could mean for him, how it'll fundamentally change both of our lives, unlives, possibly forever.

He hadn't answered me then.

I feel like he has now.

There's silence between us. He don't look up at me, keeps his eyes down. I keep mine glued on him, locked to the dark lashes made darker against the pale skin of his cheeks.

When I finally do speak, the first question that comes out of my mouth isn't the one I'd been expecting, either.

"Why?"

Not _what_ , like it probably should be. Not what. Not even _when_. Even though that's obvious.

 _Why?_

Spike's eyes shoot back up, and he looks at me. Tilting his head slowly to the side, narrowing his eyes just a little. Like he's trying to read my mind.

I wonder if he actually can.

All those times he'd managed to before, every time he'd told me what I was thinking before I'd even thought it myself. It used to sort of freak me out, but I'd just thought I was easy to read.

Spike's always been so creepily perceptive, anyway.

Now I have to wonder, looking at him standing so still, so sure, across from me.

If maybe he really had just known.

If this was always going to happen.

If it was always going to be him.

"Guess my demon found it's match," he says, letting his voice drop lower, sweeter.

The way he has to know by now makes the pulse point in my throat jump.

And he can clearly see it, now. I haven't bothered to cover his mark tonight.

"Yeah," I murmur, weighing this new information, letting it sink in. "Apparently in mine."

I think about that night. That unexplainable, uncontrollable urge I'd felt to lean up and sink my teeth into the smooth flesh of his shoulder. His answering roar, the glittering gold that had met my gaze when I'd pulled back. How I'd brought his demon out.

How I'd dimly realized in the haze of the moment that it was what I'd wanted to do.

"Sort of wondered at the time if I'd gone completely sack of hammers," he says, eyes still fixed on mine. "Bitin' the bloody Slayer. But—"

And I finish the thought for him.

"I wanted you to."

It leaves my lips so softly, nearly drowned out by the gust of wind that chooses this particular moment to weave it's way through the headstones beside us. But I know he's heard me.

It's the first time I've admitted that to him, directly. Just to him.

The funny thing is, I hadn't been prepared for it to sound like it holds such a double meaning.

To _feel_ like it does.

Spike regards me curiously, then nods, biting down on his lip. "Think I knew that."

He says it like he hears the double meaning, too.

We don't talk anymore about it. Not because we don't want to, but because I think we both know what's just happened. And because it finally feels like we're on even ground.

We have feelings for each other. That much is obvious. If it hadn't been before, after last night, it feels more...official now.

It's what I'd really said last night when he'd asked me if it bothered me, this thing between us, and I'd told him no.

It's what he'd really said tonight when he'd admitted to thinking, if even for a moment, about claiming me.

We've said it without saying it, but we've said it none-the-less.

When we arrive at the Magic Box, coming in the back door the same way we had last night, we both stop short.

The training room has been completely cleared at the center, the punching bag unhooked from it's chain and resting on it's side in the far corner beside the pommel horse. On the table to the side, where I know my hand wraps are usually kept, is an array of weapons.

And behind the table, Giles is standing there. He's removed his jacket and has the sleeves of his white button down rolled up to his elbows.

"Good, you're here," he says, not waiting for either of us to ask what the deal is with the redecorating. "We can get started, then."

I raise my eyebrows at him. "Get started with…" I look around the room, noting for the first time the wide circle that looks like it's been outlined in packing tape on the floor. There are thick mats lining the inside of it. "What exactly?"

Giles steps around the tiny weapons table, turning away from us briefly to push the training room door closed before turning back toward us.

"Spike," he says, removing his glasses. He pauses and looks down as he polishes them on his handkerchief before putting them back on and looking up again. "I'd like you to hit Buffy."

I gape at him, immediately turning wide eyes to the vampire beside me. He looks back at me, brow furrowed, looking as confused as I feel.

We turn back toward Giles and ask the question in unison.

" _What_?"


	24. Chapter 23

Giles stands there looking back and forth between the two of us before finally sighing, folding his arms over his chest.

Spike is the first of all three of us to speak again.

"You want me to hit the Slayer?" He asks, stepping forward. His scarred eyebrow is raised.

Giles turns cool eyes back to him, unmoving.

"That _is_ what I said, yes."

I frown deeply, my turn to step forward. I put my hands out in front of me, gesturing around the room, the taped circle, the array of weapons on the table. I notice now that a fair amount of them are of the pointy and wooden variety.

"What is this?" I ask, my voice coming out harsher than I intend it to. I'm just as confused as I feel Spike is beside me.

But Giles isn't listening to me, isn't looking at me. His gaze is still fixed to the vampire at my side.

"You've done that and much more to her in the past, Spike," he murmurs coldly, tilting his head back slightly. "Surely this shouldn't be difficult."

I watch as Spike's eyes narrow dangerously, his hands curling into fists at his sides. It occurs to me that Giles still doesn't know, or at least is pretending not to know, how much things have changed between Spike and I.

I'd have thought it would have been obvious, the way he'd behaved the night before. The overt jealousy over Dracula, over Angel.

Then again, maybe it was only obvious to me, because I could feel it all so clearly.

Only obvious to me because I can feel _all_ of it so clearly.

So either Giles doesn't know...or he _does_ know, and this is his way of testing it out.

Only that doesn't make sense, either.

I frown more deeply, looking back and forth between the two of them. Is Giles banking on Spike refusing to hit me? And if he is, what exactly would that prove? It wouldn't necessarily give either of our feelings away.

He could be refusing just because he doesn't want the chip to go off…

 _Oh_.

My eyes widen in realization.

That's it.

"Is this part of that thing you wanted to try out?" I ask, turning back toward Giles. "That you mentioned on the phone?"

Giles shifts his eyes toward me and gives me a quick, short nod. I nod back, still a little wary, but understanding. And a little relieved that it's this simple and not something that would be more...complicated to explain.

I peel off my jacket, balling it up and tossing it into the far corner of the room before turning back to the makeshift ring. I step into the taped off circle, the mats spongy below my feet, and face the bleached vampire.

I square my shoulders, tilting my chin back.

"Do it," I say, gesturing for him to step into the circle with me.

He turns cool, azure eyes on me. Both dark brows are knit together.

He shakes his head, dropping his voice down low. For my ears only. "You're off your _nut_."

I sigh, giving him a patented eye roll even though his words, the intensity with which he's said them has a pleasant, warm feeling pooling in my stomach.

"Spike."

And I say his name in that way I had a few nights ago, standing in my kitchen. The way that sounds part demanding, part pleading. His body immediately stiffens, and he takes a step forward, coming into the circle with me.

His shoulders are tense, the muscle in his jaw clenched.

"Slayer," he warns. HIs voice is still impossibly low, but I can hear it, can feel the little pulsing jolts of anxiety coming off him. They probably aren't all over hitting me. Some of them could be about the chip firing, or, more accurately, what might happen when he hits me and the chip _doesn't_ fire.

Because I don't think it's going to.

My eyes drift sideways, to the table of weapons. My own anxiety level rises a little.

But we don't have time to skirt around this. The sooner we do what Giles is asking, the sooner we figure out what it means. Because he didn't put all of this in place, the mats on the floor, just so Spike could hit me once.

He must have found something, read _something_ , to go through all this trouble.

"Just do it," I tell him, softening my voice just a little.

When he still looks hesitant, I take a small, measured step closer to him. Searching his eyes with mine, I nod.

"It's _fine_."

He sighs one last time.

And then his left fist flies out in a straight line, right hand coming up to brace against his shoulder, a clean jab directly into my nose. It hurts, but only a little, and not nearly as badly as I remember Spike's jabs hurting.

And I realize the way he's hit me just now, it's almost exactly the same way he'd punched Tara all those weeks ago, standing in the front of the shop.

He's put hardly any force behind it at all.

"Ow," I mumble, wrinkling my nose, reaching my hand up to press against the light stinging sensation burning behind my eyes.

I look back at Spike, blinking, and he's just standing across from me like he isn't sure what to do next.

His chip hasn't fired.

I drop my hand down, a little unnerved, but honestly not all that surprised.

"The chip—"I start to say.

"I know." Spike finishes.

We both freeze, turning our heads slowly to the side to look at Giles.

His eye are on Spike, his lips set in a grim line. He doesn't look surprised, either. He does, however, have a wooden stake gripped firmly in his hand now.

My heart skips a beat and I immediately step toward him. "What are you doing?"

But Giles ignores me.

"Alright," he says, taking a step forward. He comes into the circle, standing directly to the right of us. "Now Spike, if you wouldn't mind hitting me."

I freeze, mouth slightly open, gaping at him.

That wasn't what I'd been expecting.

"Giles," I start to protest, but he puts a hand out to stop me.

"Buffy, please, it's quite alright," he says, reaching up to remove his glasses.

And I see what we're doing now, fully understand what's going on.

Testing Spike's chip, seeing if it still works. First on me, because Spike had bitten me. I should have known this would come up. We'd told Giles that Spike had bitten me, but not much else. Nothing about how it hadn't really hurt. Nothing about what else was happening at the time.

Of course he'd be wondering if his chip was still active. Why it wouldn't have gone off when he'd bitten me.

It's the same thing I'd wondered myself.

But Spike's just hit me, and nothing. No blinding pain, no cradling his head between his hands.

 _Nothing_.

I'd thought it was just because the bite had been pleasure driven. But now I'm thinking it over again, realizing there were other times, _plenty_ of other times over the past couple months when Spike had done things to me that probably should have caused the chip to go off.

And it never had.

I shake my head to clear it, brow furrowed, returning to the moment and looking up just in time to see Spike's fist flying out again.

He doesn't seem to have the same hesitation in hitting Giles as he'd shown before hitting me. He barely pauses, barely allows any time for Giles to square his shoulders and face him, before he's sending another hard jab directly into the bridge of my Watcher's nose.

The reaction is instantaneous, from both of them.

Giles cries out, a loud, muffled "Damn!", dropping the stake as both his hands reach up to cup his nose, head flying backwards. And Spike roars loudly, clearly in pain. He doubles over and one palm comes up to press into his forehead, the other pressing two fingers into his temple.

So the chip is still working. Spike still feels pain when he tries to harm a human.

Which means there's something wrong, something different, about me.

Again, I'm not as surprised as I'd expected to be. Mostly, I just feel relieved.

Something that I'm sure I'd be much happier about in the moment if it weren't for the splitting, blinding headache radiating through my skull right now.

I collapse to the ground, crashing onto the mats below me. My knees hit first, and then my hands fly out to catch me as I lean forward, gasping.

There are little white dots dancing in front of my eyes.

"Buffy." It's Giles, his voice urgent, directly beside my ear. "Buffy, are you alright?"

I feel his hand around my upper arm, holding me steady. The room is spinning a little, and 'm still having trouble catching my breath. I shake my head, blinking rapidly to clear the stinging dampness in my eyes. After a very long, very still moment by breathing starts to even out again. The immediate, most intense waves of pain are over, but there's an aching now. Like the worst migraine I've ever had, emanating from somewhere in the back of my head and radiating in crawling waves upward.

When I finally look up and meet Spike's eyes, there's no question in them. No confusion.

We both know exactly what's just happened.

"Is that what it feels like?" I ask him, voice shaking slightly. I push back off my hands to rest on my heels, Giles shifting back with me. I lift a hand to my head, pressing the cool backs of my fingertips to my forehead. "Every time?"

Spike just nods, dropping his own hand away from his head and stepping toward me. "Pretty much, yeah." Then he frowns, his eyes flashing with something that looks pained as he gazes down at me. "Guess I've gotten used to it."

I nod weakly, looking back down toward the mat.

My stomach churns a little, thinking of all the times I'd seen Spike's chip fire, all the times I'd caused it to go off myself. I think maybe I always thought it wasn't so...painful. More like a dog with a shock collar and less like...well, less like the wholly incapacitating pain I'd just felt.

I'd never known.

Beside me, Giles's hand tightens around my arm. I glance over toward him and he nods, asking my permission. I nod back.

When he starts to pull me back up to my feet I let him.

Once I'm back on my feet, he lets go of my arm, stepping into my line of vision.

"Buffy," he says, looking out at me from behind the rims of his glasses. I can already see where the swelling around his nose is starting. "You felt the chip firing?"

I nod, wincing immediately. "I felt it." I pause, pressing my thumb into my temple. "Still feeling it a little bit."

"Takes a bit for the headache to stop," Spike says quietly, bringing my eyes back to his.

His hands are balled into fists at his sides, the muscles in his neck tense. He looks more agitated now than he had a moment ago, when I'd told him to hit me.

I manage a tight, small smile, hoping for reassuring, before turning back to Giles.

"What exactly was the point of all this, again?" I ask, head still achy, my voice sounding weirdly hollow in my own ears.

I know I already know, but my head's feeling just a little scrambled.

Giles sighs, frowning, glancing back toward Spike before settling on me again.

"I had to test the chip, Buffy," he explains, and it all comes flooding back to me. "If Spike was able to bite you without it firing," he casts a scathing glance in the vampire's direction, "which I'm assuming now that he _was_ , it was imperative I find out whether or not it had stopped working altogether or if it was…" He trails off, pausing, shifting his eyes down to the ground. "Well, if it was—"

"Just me," I say softly, not looking at either of them. I have my eyes down, focused on the ground where the tape is already peeling away from the training room floor.

I can feel their eyes, both Giles's and Spike's, shoot back to me. Out of my peripheral vision I see Giles nodding.

"Yes."

I close my eyes, nodding my own head. The distant, hollow ache in my skull is starting to fade just a little.

"Well," I murmur, opening my eyes again and forcing myself to look over at my Watcher. "I guess we know the answer to that."

Giles frowns. "I suppose we do."

Now that my head is going back to somewhat normal, I have time to think over what we've just found out. What I think I already sort of knew. I'm torn between feeling relieved that the chip still works, having had some serious panic over the stake I'd seen in Giles's hand before, and feeling sick to my stomach.

Spike's chip had worked on Tara, who'd been convinced her entire life that she was part demon. It had worked on Giles a moment ago.

If he tried to go after anyone else, any innocent bystander, it would work on them, too.

The only one it doesn't work on is _me_.

"Why?" I ask, searching Giles's eyes with mine. "Is it…do I not register as human anymore?" I pause, waiting for him to respond. He doesn't say anything right away.

I turn away from him, looking instead toward Spike. "Am I…is this connection making me less human?"

I wish I could hide the shakiness, the tinge of fear in my voice. But I can't.

Spike immediately steps toward me, only stopping when he seems to remember that we aren't alone. His eyes are dark, pained as they look into mine now. I can't tell if it's a reflection of me, of what I'm feeling, or if it's something else altogether.

"I think it's simpler than that," Giles says, drawing my attention back to him. "But again, I'll have to do a little more research to be certain."

I watch as he turns around, walking back toward the small weapons table and leaning down to the bottom shelf to pull out the dusty old book we'd been looking at yesterday. He flips it open, absently turning pages as he continues on. "It might just be that this connection…" He pauses to read a section of the text before shaking his head, continuing to flip pages. "The chip may not register you as fully human anymore, Buffy, because the demon inside of you is becoming more prominent." He turns his eyes back to mine. "That isn't to say you're turning into a demon, by any means."

This whole topic has a sense of Deja vu to it, making me think of my little foray into mind reading from a couple years ago. _An aspect of the demon_. I wonder if the Initiative's microchips would have worked on me, then.

I push that thought aside.

"No, I know that," I say, nodding, chewing down on my bottom lip. His words actually making me feel a little better. I shrug. "I mean, the demon in me...it's something that's always been there right?"

Giles nods back, slipping his fingers into the book to keep his place and closing it. He gestures toward me with it.

"Truthfully Buffy, I'm a little surprised the chip ever worked on you to begin with."

I frown again.

It's not something I'd ever considered before.

And still, it makes a weird kind of sense. Even more so, now, with everything we've learned. The demon inside of me, the demon that makes a Slayer a Slayer is the same demon that makes a vampire a vampire. It stands to some kind of reason, then, that a government microchip that registers humanity might make a mistake when confronted with something that isn't wholly demon, but isn't entirely human either.

And with my Slayer side growing more prominent by the day, more drawn to the demon in Spike, it actually _does_ make sense that it might stop registering me the same way.

"Yeah," I say softly, turning my gaze back toward Spike who's no longer looking at me, but riveted on the wall of weapons over to our left. "Me, too."

That is, if it ever _did_ register me as fully human before.

I guess that's a question for another day.

"Right," Spike says quickly, still not looking at me as he changes the subject. "So we know the chip doesn't work on the Slayer anymore. Brilliant. Anything else?"

Giles looks over at him, his expression irritated.

"Actually, yes." He drops his hand, the one holding the book, down to his hip. "After testing the chip, I was going to have the two of you spar."

 _Oh._

That makes sense, too. And has a fresh, burning wave of anticipation building in my stomach. I haven't sparred, _really_ sparred, in what feels like forever. I can only hit so hard when it's just me and Giles.

I look down at my feet, at the circle I'm still standing in, and nod.

"Hence the mats," I say, turning my eyes back up to my Watcher.

He nods at me. "Precisely."

"And now…you're…what?" Spike asks, folding his arms up over his chest and eyeing Giles warily. "Not going to have us spar?"

I can't ignore the sharp twinge of disappointment I feel when Giles shakes his head no.

The thought of sparring with Spike, of getting a chance to fight him the way we used to…

My cheeks are suddenly burning hot.

"Why not?" I ask, trying and failing not to let the disappointment, and a little of the breathlessness the anticipation has conjured up, slip into my voice.

Giles looks over at me, blinking.

"Well, the reason for that particular part of the evening was to test something I read last night after you left. Regarding your…connection." He looks away from me, opening the book again. "You said you'd been able to feel each other emotionally?"

Spike sighs, grumbling a low "Sounds poncier every time you say it."

I feel my lips twitch, itching to curve up into a smile as his eyes meet mine. Spike smirks back at me.

Giles just ignores the comment, continues reading through the book.

"According to the text, the next step in the connection is feeling one another physically."

Spike waggles his eyebrows at me. I pin him with a hard look, hoping Giles isn't noticing any of this.

He doesn't seem to be.

When I look back at him, his nose is down in the book's dusty pages.

"The Latin phrase used is _corpus nexu_ ," Giles says, glancing up at me briefly. "Literally, body connection." He looks back down, scanning the text with the help of his finger. I watch his lips moving slightly until he finds the next part he's looking for. "You'd be able to sense not just the emotions, but the physical sensations of the other." He stops paraphrasing and glances up, gesturing toward me with the open book. "Pain, for instance."

Across from me, Spike snorts. A short bark of laughter.

"Wait a tic, lemme see if I have this straight." He steps forward, both hands out in front of him, palms up. "You wanted us to _fight_ to see if we could feel each other's _pain_?"

I turn toward the older man, my brow furrowing. When Spike puts it like that, it does sound a little weird.

Giles lowers the book slightly. He scowls at the vampire, straightening his shoulders.

"As usual, Spike, that's a gross oversimplification," he murmurs derisively. Then he shrugs, casting his eyes down and to the left. "But…yes."

Spike and I both frown, our eyes meeting again.

"Well, that's pretty bloody obvious at this point, innit?" He asks, gesturing toward me, my head, his eyes never leaving mine.

That same pained, haunted look from before flickers in them.

"Obvious that you've reached this stage of the connection, yes," Giles agrees, looking back and forth between the two of us before finally landing on me. "But we don't know how severe the pain has to be for either of you to feel it."

I make a face, gingerly reaching up and pressing a hand to the back of my head. The aching has pretty much stopped all together now, but the memory of the pain is still fresh.

I look across at Spike, hurting in a very different way now than before. I can't believe that's what it feels like, that's how much it hurts, every time.

I look back at Giles. "I'm gonna go out on a limb and say pretty darn."

He frowns at me. "How can you be sure?"

"The other night…" I pause, re-thinking how much of the story I want to recount now. _Before Spike came over. Before we talked all night. Before I fell asleep on his shoulder and kicked him out before you could find out he was there._ I clear my throat, deciding to forgo all of that. "I felt it when he got into a fight."

Giles raises his eyebrows, looking more curious than the disappointed I'd expected, what I'd seen most of last night.

I continue on. "Enough that I knew something was wrong, but I didn't…I didn't feel the hits he took or anything."

Spike scoffs, bringing both mine and Giles's eyes to him again.

"Didn't take that many," he grumbles, dropping his hands down to his hips, whipping the duster back behind him slightly.

I give him a look, rolling my eyes.

 _Because_ that's _the most important part of the story._

"That's…odd." Giles picks the book back up, leafing through the pages until he seems to find what he's looking for. I watch as he scans the page in front of him, eyes moving quickly down until he stops reading abruptly. "It must be because you haven't completed everything."

This is news to both me and Spike.

We exchange a look.

" _Completed_ everythin'?" He asks, turning his eyes away from me and back over to Giles, to the book in his hand. "Thought this was just happenin' to us, didn't realize we had work to do."

I watch as Giles shakes his head, his own brow furrowing in much the same way ours just had.

"It isn't work, necessarily. It's just an extra element to the theory. I hadn't…caught this previously." He scans the pages he's just read over again quickly, flipping hurriedly onto the next page, scanning over the words there and placing his finger down toward the middle of the page.

He takes a deep breath in and reads, "'Three movements, two halves, one whole.'"

He emphasizes the numbers, but that isn't what I'm focused on.

I fold my arms over my chest. "Movements?"

"Yes," Giles murmurs, eyes scanning the text in front of him quickly. "Apparently, there are three movements to this connection. Or it might be more accurate to call them 'phases'." He clears his throat, eyes riveted to the book in his hand as he starts to rattle them off. " _Affectus_ , emotional. _Corpus_ , body. And…" He pauses, looking up and meeting my eyes. " _Sanguinem_. "

I freeze, the room around me going very still.

I don't speak Latin, but I know that word. Recognize it instantly, somewhere deep in my gut. As though I've always known it.

It forms together in my head at the same moment I hear Spike whisper it beside me.

"Blood."

I whip my head back toward him. His eyes are on me, riveted to the spot where I know his bite mark is. It's hidden behind my hair currently, but I think he'd be able to find it even if I'd covered it in a layer of cement.

 _Blood_.

"A blood connection," I say knowingly.

He nods, azure eyes turning away from the mark and back up to meet mine. "A claim."

Over on my right, Giles groans. "Bloody hell."

My cheeks suddenly feel hot again, the room much too warm.

"So…it's, what?" I ask, directing the question to Giles but never taking my eyes off the vampire in front of me. "Inevitable?"

In light of the conversation we've just had earlier tonight, it's the way it kind of feels. And it makes sense.

Both times we've been together, both times we've been very much of the physically connected, had ended in a bite. True, the first time had been only blunt teeth, but clearly the impulse had been there. And the second time had been a very real, very powerful bite. Blood drawn and everything.

Only _I_ hadn't.

I'd bitten him, had been the one to instigate the whole thing, but I hadn't drawn blood.

I wonder now what would have happened, where we would be, if I had.

"We don't know that," Giles is saying, snapping the book shut and laying it down on the table beside the weapons. His voice is strained, slightly panicked.

"Kinda do," Spike says, never looking away from me. His eyes are almost black now.

Thinking the same thing I am, I'm sure.

"Do shut up, Spike," Giles mutters, placing his hands on his hips and turning away from us.

Spike and I haven't looked away from each other once. Not even for a moment since the mention of the claim.

And Giles is talking, still talking, but I don't think either of us are really listening anymore.

As I stare at him, I can feel the pounding of my pulse start to pick up. Blood rushing in my ears, making my head grow light.

 _I have to get out of here._

"Just…don't do anything rash," Giles says warningly, finishing up whatever lecture he'd been giving. I can see out of the corner of my eye, he's looking back and forth between the two of us. I manage to tear my gaze away from Spike's long enough to focus on my Watcher. " _Either_ of you. Not until we know how we're going to handle this. What it is we're going to tell everyone." He pauses then, groaning, whipping his glasses off and pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. "Bloody Council's going to have a field day with this."

And I should probably be concerned about that, too. I know it, recognize it very dimly.

But after everything we've just found out, there's only one thing on my mind. One thing I want to be doing right now.

And standing here in the training room, staring at each other, fingers itching to reach out and touch him…it's not enough.

"I should go finish patrol," I say suddenly, probably cutting Giles off mid-rant, turning on my heel to march over to the place I'd tossed my jacket earlier. "Things were pretty dead earlier."

"I'll bugger off, too," Spike says, crossing the room to stand beside me. I glance up at him as I throw my jacket on, just in time to catch the wicked, hungry gleam in his eye. Like he's read my mind. "Headed that way anyway."

Giles eyes us both warily, dropping his hand down away from his head.

"Are you sure that's wise?" he asks me pointedly, reaching for the book again. He holds it out in front of himself. "This is something that needs to be dealt with."

Which is the reason I need to get out of here. Now.

"And we _will_ deal with it," I tell him, nodding. "I just…I'm on information overload, Giles." It's the truth. "I need to get out of here."

"Very well," he says after a moment, setting the book back down on the table. He turns back around and looks first at me before pinning the vampire at my side with a dangerous look. "Just don't do anything stupid."

"We won't," I say breezily, turning quickly and heading out the door, feeling Spike directly behind me. I let the door slam shut behind us before Giles has a chance to make me promise something else I'm not sure I can keep.

Because what I have in mind right now is probably pretty stupid.

"I think you used to hit harder, pet," Spike teases, aiming a well-timed cross, hook combination at me. The cross misses, but the hook connects solidly with the underside of my jaw, sending my head reeling backward.

But I catch myself easily before I can topple over.

"I think _you_ used to able to actually knock me down," I counter, catching myself and spinning around, using my own momentum to land a roundhouse kick to his chest.

Not hard enough to really hurt, but hard enough to send him stumbling backwards.

I watch him as he leers at me, righting himself. I drop down into a fighting stance and roll my shoulders back.

He steps toward me.

"You're holding back," Spike accuses, clucking his tongue, looking much too casual for someone who's just been kicked in the chest. I might only be using half my strength, but I'm using enough that it should have made him at least a little uncomfortable.

He tilts his head to the side, lashes sweeping down and back up again. He smirks, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops, splaying his fingers down over his upper thighs. "Afraid you might damage the goods?"

My eyes automatically drop down to the space he's framing and I feel the heat rush to my cheeks.

It's the type of thing that used to make me crazy, blind with rage.

Now it just makes me crazy.

"I'm not holding back," I lie, stepping forward and aiming a plain high kick toward his jaw.

Spike catches me by the ankle, strong fingers wrapped tightly around me, the denim of my jeans digging into the space where my boots stop.

His eyes smolder in the dark of the cemetery as he uses his grip on my ankle to pull me closer.

"Yes," he murmurs in a low voice, "you are."

And he releases my ankle abruptly, pushing me lightly, letting me drop to the ground. I tuck and roll, somersaulting backwards and back up to my feet.

My skin is tight, hot. Every muscle tensed. I can't remember the last time I felt like this during a fight. The last time I felt like everything in me was so wildly out of control and completely _in_ control all at once.

My blood is on fire.

"Yeah, well," I clear my throat, standing up a little straighter. "So are you."

It's the truth. We've been out here for an hour, and neither of us has aimed a blow at the other that's come even close to full power.

Spike's eyes flash, but not in anger. In challenge.

My veins grow even hotter, pulsing in reaction to him.

"Right then," he purrs, and I watch as the bones in his face begin to shift. The chiseled planes of his cheeks melt away, gleaming fangs extending down. His eyes feral, bright gold. "I won't hold back if you don't."

His words strike a chord in me, remind me of something. That night that feels like so long ago now, the first time I'd been sparring with Riley. The exchange had been nearly identical, ending in almost exactly the same words.

But I'd messed up that night. I'd let myself believe it would be okay, that Riley would be okay, if I agreed. One hard kick to his chest had proved that thought to be so, so wrong.

And the way he'd looked at me that night…like I was something frightening. Something he didn't understand. Too strong.

 _I could never be too strong for Spike._

I think of everything that's happened, all the moments, everything that's passed between us over the last few days. His arms around me in the kitchen, letting my tears soak his t-shirt. Sitting beside me on my sofa. Letting me fall asleep on his shoulder after I'd exhausted myself, after I'd admitted all of my insecurities to him.

The way his lips felt against my forehead last night.

No, I don't think I could ever be too _strong_ for Spike.

But I don't think I could never be too weak for him, either.

It's this thought that lingers with me, sticks in my head now as I look at him. Standing across from me, positively vibrating in anticipation. I rake my gaze over him, over his face, taking in the cool visage of his demon. To the thing, the part of him, I'm supposed to hate. The hate never comes. If anything, the inhuman draw, the fierce pull I feel toward him only gets stronger.

Like its crawling out from somewhere inside of me.

I feel the corners of my lips curve up.

"Okay," I say, agreeing to his earlier proposition.

And then I fly toward him, three punches in a row. _Jab, cross, hook._ Spike deftly avoids the cross and the hook, but not before my knuckles smash down hard into the bridge of his nose on the jab.

My old favorite spot.

Spike grabs both my wrists in his hands, pulling me hard against him, then whirling me around so my back is to his front. He plants his boot flat against the small of my back and kicks out with a rumbling growl.

Again, not hard enough to really hurt, just enough to send me rushing forward, my arms going out for balance.

I whip back around to face him, chest heaving in time with his. His eyes glitter in the dark of the cemetery, narrowing slightly on me.

"You know you drop your right shoulder, don't you?" He asks breathlessly around his fangs, righting himself again, reaching up to wipe a tiny drop of blood away from his nose.

I frown at him, my own eyes narrowed.

But my lips twitch in the beginnings of a smile.

It's been years since I've had this much fun sparring.

"I do _not_ ," I say, reaching a thumb up and wiping a little trickle of blood from the cut he'd managed to open earlier on my lip.

Spike's eyes shoot down to my mouth, glued to the small crimson stain there, and I use the moment to run at him again.

"Then how come," he pauses, ducking smoothly out of the way of the left cross I've just thrown, spinning around and catching me across the back with his forearm. "I always see those comin'?"

I stumble forward, catching myself against the side of a large, smooth headstone. Bracing my hands flat on the stone I turn my head around, meeting flashing golden eyes with mine. He's backing up a little, still in a fighting stance. Smirking at me, his tongue curled behind his top teeth, his fangs.

I push myself off the headstone and turn toward Spike, dusting my hands off as I step closer to him.

And it's there. It's there between us, the way I think it _always_ has been. The magnetic pull, the lust, driven by blood and something else, something much more _basic_. I feel the familiar draw toward him, heat flooding my chest, over my cheeks. The blood in my veins boiling higher, hotter than before.

Singing for him.

It's been so long since I've experienced this. No other vampire, no other opponent I've _ever_ faced has challenged me the way Spike does. Move for move, countering me before I even know which way I'm about to strike myself.

Perfectly matched.

 _In every way._

"I don't know," I say, and I don't bother to hide the smile on my lips this time as I rush him again. Expertly skirting around the wild jab he throws my way, I drop down and use my leg to catch him at the ankles.

He crashes to the ground in a pile of black leather and platinum curls, letting out a sound that's something between a groan and a chuckle.

He starts to push himself back up again immediately, but I'm on top of him before he can. Straddling his hips, my knees digging hard into the sides of his ribcage.

"Why didn't you see _that_ coming?" I ask, leaning further over him and dropping my voice down low.

Spike raises his eyebrow, his delicious smirk still in place.

Still making every inch of my body feel hot, every inch where we're touching each other feels like its electrified.

"How do you know I _didn't_?" Spike purrs, emphasizing the statement with a slow roll of his hips.

My eyes go wide at the feel of him against me, beneath me.

I hadn't really realized until this moment how intimately I'm pressing myself against him.

I stare down at him, my hands digging harder into the grass where they rest on either side of his head. And then I feel his hands on me. Feather soft and cool as they glide over my waist, beneath my jacket. His fingertips dig into me, pulling me further down onto him.

And there's that feeling again. The primal, animal, white hot lust. Both kinds. Burning me up, nerve endings all heightened. I can feel it everywhere, starting at the pit of my stomach and spreading until it reaches the very tips of my fingers. The rushing of my blood in my ears, the pulse point pounding in my throat. Beneath his mark. The wild need I've felt only twice before. To possess him. To submit to him.

To make him submit to me.

I watch as his demon melts away. Gleaming gold back to swirling indigo, gleaming fangs disappearing behind soft lips, the angular line of his jaw, his cheeks reappearing as he leans his head deeper into the grass, looking up at me.

I let my eyes drift closed and lean toward him, lips parted, just lightly touching them to his.

And then his fingers dig even harder into me and I'm suddenly no longer on top of him, flying over his head, landing hard onto my back several feet away.

I sputter, dragging in a deep, ragged breath. I exhale in short bursts, coughing a little. Completely caught off guard. I think the air's been knocked from my lungs.

And Spike's there again, a moment later, leaning over me. He puts his hands on my face, cool fingers working over my flushed skin.

"You alright?" He asks, positioning himself over me. His eyes are warm, concerned, but his lips are still turned up in the ghost of a smile.

Probably because he knows I'm fine.

Knowns he'd _know_ it if I wasn't.

I nod, waiting for my breathing to return to normal.

And then I bring my knees up, pressing the heels of my boots into his chest and pushing back as hard as I can.

Probably a little _too_ hard.

Spike flies backwards, crashing into the stone side of the crypt that's been over to our right this entire time. I sit up quickly, watching as he drops down into the grass.

I feel it in my head when he hits the side. The hollow, aching knock at the base of my skull.

My stomach drops.

I'm at his side in an instant, both hands on either side of his face, drawing his eyes up to mine.

They're a little glazed.

"Spike," I say, dropping down to my knees beside him. "God, are you okay?"

He focuses indigo eyes on me, and I can see the flecks of gold swirling in them now. There's a lazy, half smile on his lips. A little pained, but only a little.

Relief suffuses my chest.

"Gotta say," he murmurs, leaning his head to the side, cracking his neck. "Haven't exactly missed _that_."

I frown.

"Didn't mean to do it quite that hard," I tell him, standing back up. I put one hand on my hip, extend the other down toward him.

"You know me, Slayer," he says, clasping my hand with his, letting me haul him back to his feet. "Like things a little rough." His tongue curls up again, and I fight to keep the answering smirk off my face.

Spike rolls his shoulders back, adjusting the collar on his duster. I watch as he seems to remember something, narrowing his eyes, the smirk falling.

"Just for the record," he says, stepping away from the stone wall and leaning closer to me. "I still won."

I blink at him, mouth dropping open. Both because I'm not sure what it is he's talking about, and because if he actually thinks _he_ won then we have very different definitions of the word.

I'm not the one who got knocked against a wall, here.

"What?" I ask, eyebrow shooting up, crossing my arms.

Spike just nods.

"You heard me," he says, tilting his head to the side. "That little stunt wasn't bloody fair."

 _Little stunt…_

It takes me a minute to put two and two together.

And then I realize, eyes widening slightly, what he's talking about. How I used his concern to trick him, when he'd come to see if I was alright. How I'd known to do that.

Known it would work.

And he's right, it wasn't fair. But seeing the look on his face in the moment, his eyes, the way his hands had cradled my cheek. He'd looked at me with so much concern, so much genuine worry.

I kind of feel like it was worth it.

"Ah, c'mon Spike," I murmur, smirking a little, tilting my head to mirror his. "All's fair in love and sparring."

That brings his head snapping straight back up, his eyes flashing dangerously as they look into mine.

I freeze.

 _What did I say?_

He takes a step toward me, lips curving up slowly. I watch as he drops his eyes down to the ground at my feet, pursing his full lips.

"'S that right?" Spike asks, his voice rough, gaze suddenly dark as it moves back up my body.

I swallow, taking a short, impulsive step back.

I'm not sure why. I don't think I really want to.

Old habits, I guess.

"So this," Spike says, hands reaching out lightning fast and grabbing me around the waist. He pulls me flush against him, my hips aligned with his. "This is fair, then?"

 _No_ , I think desperately, body reacting on instinct to his. _Not fair_.

I can feel every inch, every lean, perfect inch of him against me. My lashes flutter, breath catching halfway down to my lungs.

I'd begun to think maybe this feeling, the one where I'm sure the world is spinning backwards, would fade over time. That it couldn't possibly feel like this every single time he's this close to me.

I'm thinking now I was wrong.

"I said s-sparring," I say, stammering a little, the words sticking awkwardly on my tongue.

"Mmhm," Spike purrs, spinning us around. He digs his fingers harder into my waist, pressing my back into the mausoleum wall. "And love."

My eyes widen.

No way. No way did I say that. _Love_.

I didn't.

Did I?

I can't even remember, can't think straight. My brain's already starting to do that fuzzy, hazy thing it does when he's this close, being this intentional.

Logic flies completely out the window, leaving me brainless. A big, Slayer shaped, jello-y pile of goo.

My whole body just wants to mold itself to him.

"Love?" I ask numbly. My voice is small, breathless, and I press myself into him.

Completely involuntarily.

His hand slides over from my back, around to my waist and up, pulling my jacket away from my neck.

"Your word, kitten," he murmurs, leaning toward me the same way I've just leaned into him. I suck a deep breath in, holding it as he presses soft, feather light kisses along my collarbone. "Not mine."

 _Kitten_. Did he just call me kitten?

"I didn't…" I stutter incoherently, not sure where it is I'm going with the words. I tangle my fingers in the hem of his shirt. "I mean, I don't…"

But I can't say that.

Can't say I didn't mean to say it, because I'm not sure that's the truth. Even if it had been just a slip up, Freudian or whatever those are, my mind had to have been thinking it already.

And I can't say I don't mean it because…

 _Oh, God._

And just as the thought crosses my mind, just as the words form on the tip of my tongue, Spike flicks his tongue out, tracing the faded bite mark on my throat with the cool, pointed tip.

My legs give out.

Spike's arms are fully around me, strong fingers splayed possessively over my shoulder blades as he quickly spins us around. His back is pressing into the stone wall now, and we both slide down to the ground in a heap.

I'm straddling him again, cool wet grass seeping in through the denim at my knees on either side of him.

He pulls back away from me, leaning his head against the wall.

"Bloody hell," he murmurs, eyes black, unfocused as they look back at mine.

"Felt that too, huh?" I ask, my voice a little shaky.

Spike nods, hooded eyes scanning my flushed face. He pulls me a little closer to him, shifting me slightly. I can feel how tense he is, the muscles in his legs twitching beneath me. The same tingling, shuddering aftershocks that are shooting through mine.

I clear my throat a little awkwardly.

"You think that corpse thing applies to pleasure the same way it does to pain?" I ask, looking down at him from my position over his lap.

Spike chuckles.

" _Corpus_ , luv," he corrects me quietly. His eyes flash again.

And he leans forward, lightly brushing slightly parted lips against his mark. Another jolt shoots through me, landing and burning down low in my belly. Beneath me, I feel his body stiffen. "And I'd say so."

He leans back away from me again, resting his head against the side of the mausoleum.

It's all quiet between us for a moment. We don't stop looking at each other, just sit in silence, his hands on my back, mine braced lightly against his shoulders.

I can tell there's something he wants to say, wants to ask. But it's so nice right now. Calm, the light breeze whistling through the grass cooling the sweat on my brow. Spike shifts slightly, lifting the heavy veil of my hair into one of his hands and pulling it off the back of my neck, letting the breeze cool there, too.

It's something that's so simple. So insignificant, and still so telling.

I stare down at him, searching his face, but his eyes aren't on mine. They're down, focused on my throat when he drops my hair again, twisting it around his hand and pulling it over my shoulder.

"We gonna talk about it, then?" He asks after a minute, glancing back up at me and tilting his head to the side.

I bite down on my bottom lip.

"About what?" I ask dumbly, reaching a hand up, wrapping one of his longer curls around my index finger and tugging gently. "How you bleach your hair without a reflection?"

A low growl rumbles from his chest. It sends a little vibration through mine where it's pressed against his.

"Slayer," he warns, voice low but soft, honeyed.

I focus my eyes on the platinum blonde lock of hair around my finger, watching it shine in the moonlight.

"I really have always wondered—"

Spike interrupts me. "Buffy."

My shoulders slump forward slightly.

It isn't fair, I decide in this moment. All he has to do is say my name that way and I'll give him anything he wants.

Which he probably knows by now. Which is probably why he does it.

I sigh, leaning slightly away from him so I can meet his eyes.

"The claim?" I ask.

His answer is two sky high raised brows.

"Is there anything to talk about?" I ask, smoothing the curl I've pulled out back into the gel, letting my fingers move through his hair as I do. It still amazes me, how soft it is. And I watch him, mesmerized, as he presses into my touch and his eyes drift shut. "Everything else is already happening." I drop my hand down. "That's just one more piece of this whole wonky puzzle."

"I s'pose so," he says softly, azure eyes fluttering open again. He considers me a moment. "But we don't have to…" It's funny, after everything we've said to each other, all the things we've managed to say without _saying_ anything at all, and that he can still struggle for words the way he is now. "I mean, we shouldn't…"

"Do anything rash?" I ask, lips quirking up as I repeat Giles's words from earlier.

Spike's lips quirk up, too.

He leans forward, pressing his forehead into mine and inhaling. His fingers trail lightly over my shoulder blades, dropping down until they reach my waist. He nods.

He's right. He and Giles both are. Whether it's inevitable or not, it doesn't mean it's something we should just...rush in to. I still don't know a lot about it, but what I _do_ know, what Spike's told me, it's not like it's _nothing_.

Kind of the opposite of nothing.

Even if it is only a small puzzle piece of everything else that's happening.

It can wait. It can wait for us to figure out what all this means for us, how everyone else is going to handle it. _All_ of it.

I frown, chewing the inside of my cheek lightly. "We are going to have to tell people."

Spike sighs, leaning away from me again. His eyes are bright. "And by people you mean…?"

"The gang." I nod. "Yeah."

He pouts.

Actually pouts at me.

It would be the absolute most ridiculous thing I've ever seen if it also weren't the most endearing.

Someone as strong, as virile and feral and animalistic as Spike can be has no right to pout the way he is now.

"Do we have to?" He asks, and my eyes drop to his lips.

"There'll be questions," I murmur, feeling his eyes on me. "People are gonna start asking what's up when it's obvious that we don't exactly hate each other." I reach a hand up, brushing the pad of my thumb over his bottom lip, marveling at how soft it is. "And you're going to be around, and they'll wonder why, and…" I trail off, realizing what it is I've just said. I keep my hand on him, fingers against the side of his jaw, and look into his face. "Are you going to be around?"

Spike considers my question for a moment, eyeing me. He doesn't answer right away, instead wrapping both his arms around my waist, pulling me closer still. He leans his head back into the wall, blinking up at me.

"Do you want me to be?"

He asks the question like he already knows the answer, bare hints of his signature smirk still playing on his mouth.

I answer him by leaning forward, pressing my parted lips very lightly against his.

And even this kiss is different, somehow, than any other so far. It tastes different, too. The same subtle flavor of cigarette smoke and mint, that something uniquely Spike. And also hints of my sweat from our sparring session, the faintest trace of blood from the cut on the corner of my lip.

I pull back just slightly, my head spinning, light again. Growing fuzzy with the simple taste of him on my lips.

It's been just a little over a day, one day, since he's kissed me, and this small contact I've been craving makes me feel like it's been _years_.

In a way, maybe it has been years. Years since the first time I saw him, felt that draw to him. Wanted to do just what I'm doing now.

There were just too many things in the way. Things that, in the face of everything we know now, seem so insignificant.

"Should get you home," Spike murmurs, his mouth still pressed to mine, fingers subtly digging more deeply into the curves of my waist where his arms are wrapped around me.

"Should," I murmur back, feeling my body leaning further into him even as I say the words.

"Don't know if I can stop it from happenin', pet," he whispers between urgent, ardent kisses. He doesn't have to explain to me what it is he means. The claim. "If I…if _we_ don't… _fuck_ …"

"Stop," I supply for him breathlessly, my arms around his neck, breaking away to trail kisses along his jaw.

I know he's right. I know he's right, and still, _still_ I can't get myself to release him. Get my lips to stop coming back to his, drinking him in, threading my fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck to hold him more tightly to me.

And his self-control, whatever self-control he has, is wearing thin. I can hear it in every deep, throaty growl I steal from his lips. Feel it in the way he's kissing me now, one hand tangled in my hair, the other splayed over my hip. Gripping me tighter by the second, pulling me down harder onto him.

It's only the thought of what might happen, what probably _will_ happen, if we stay out here much longer that eventually has me moving again. Pulling away from him with entirely too much effort, placing both my hands on his shoulders and pushing myself to my feet.

 _Don't do anything rash._

Giles's words, my words, echo in my head again. I look down at Spike, extending my hand out for him to take it. Even the pressure of his hand, his strong fingers wrapped around mine, feels like too much in this moment.

I drop his hand as soon as he stands up, wrapping my jacket more tightly around me.

And I realize how much easier that is said than done.

When I arrive home tonight, the house is dark. Very quiet.

All the doors have already been locked, all the lamps turned off.

And yet somehow I'm not surprised when I enter my bedroom to find Dawn laying on my bed, one arm tucked up beneath her head, the other holding a magazine she'd obviously fallen asleep reading.

I take off my jacket, throwing it over the back of my desk chair and crossing the room to drop down on the edge of my bed.

I'm not sure if it's the motion that jars her awake, or that weird knowing feeling you tend to get when you're sleeping and someone's watching you. Either way, her eyes slowly blink open, focusing dimly on me in the darkness.

"What are you doing in here, Dawnie?" I ask, reaching down to unzip my boots, kicking them off one by one. "Everything okay?"

She yawns, stretching her arms up over her head and nodding. "Just waiting for you to get back from your date."

I raise an eyebrow at her. "Date?"

She frowns at me, looking equally confused. "With Spike?"

I roll my eyes.

"Dawn, that _wasn't_ a date." But even as I say the words, I'm not sure they're true. "We patrolled, and then we had to meet Giles for research."

I'd already explained this to her earlier, telling her I'd be home before she fell asleep but that it might be a little on the later side.

Turns out, it had been a _lot_ on the later side.

"Sounded like a date to me," Dawn murmurs, yawning, rolling up into a half sitting position.

"Everything sounds like a date to you," I tease, crawling around her, dropping down onto my back with a whoosh of clothing and sheets rustling together.

"Fine, it _wasn't_ a date," Dawn says, mimicking my tone of voice as she says it. She turns around so she's facing me, propping her head up in her hand. "Then what's with the hickie?"

"What?" I ask, hand flying automatically to my throat, to the only place Spike had been kissing me tonight.

His mark.

 _I haven't covered it back up._

"Relax," Dawn says, rolling her eyes at me. "It's not like I've never seen one before."

"That's not why—" I stop short, frowning at her. I lean back a little ways. "That better not be true."

"Buffy, please," she groans, whining a little. "Just tell me what's going on with you two. If it's like, a big secret or something, I can keep it." She places her free hand over her heart. "I swear."

I turn toward her, mimicking her position, propping my head up on my hand.

"The same way you kept it a secret when I borrowed Mom's pearl necklace?" I ask dryly, both brows up.

Dawn pouts, giving me a huff. "It wasn't _my_ fault you lost it."

"Good night," I murmur, pretending to roll back over onto my other side.

Dawn's hand shoots out, grabbing me around the forearm.

"Okay, okay, you're right," she says quickly, letting go of my arm when it's clear I'm not actually turning over. "Worst secret keeper ever, but I promise, Buffy." She pouts, jutting her lower lip out comically. "Please."

So, wrinkling her nose up and pouting. The two times my little sister looks the most like me.

 _I'm so proud._

I smile at her grudgingly, slowly nodding my head.

"Alright, fine," I concede, laughing when Dawn claps her hands animatedly. "I'll tell you. Giles already knows, anyway. But you can't tell Mom." I pause, then add, "Or Willow, or Xander. Okay?" I widen my eyes meaningfully, so she understands how serious I am. "Not yet."

Dawn nods quickly, settling down into the pillow again, looking up at me expectantly.

"It's kind of a long story," I warn her, rolling over onto my back, letting my head press deeper into the pillow.

The pillow, I notice, that still smells like Spike.

"We've got all night," Dawn says happily, stifling a yawn even as she's saying it.

I laugh a little, shaking my head.

And then I start to tell her.

I tell her everything, from the very beginning. The very, _very_ beginning.

The first time I ever saw Spike in that alley outside of The Bronze.

I don't know if I start the story there for her benefit, or for mine. But it's kind of nice. Hearing myself say it all out loud, working through the different emotions, all the different memories. Little pieces here and there that hadn't really ever made sense before, but start to feel like they do now.

My benefit or hers, I'm not sure it really matters. I only get about halfway through the story before her breathing evens out, and I glance back at her to see that she's fallen asleep.

I keep talking, just a little more softly, reaching down to pull the comforter up over my sister's shoulders.

So maybe this, telling the story, rehashing it all out loud, hadn't been for either of us at all.

Maybe it's for the vampire I can still feel. Standing underneath his tree outside, smoking a cigarette, looking up at my bedroom window.


	25. Chapter 24

We fall into an easy rhythm over the next week. Spike and I, Giles, Dawn…even Mom once she comes home. I spend my days helping out around the house, spending as much time as I can with Dawn and Mom.

I spend my nights patrolling and sparring with Spike, meeting up with Giles occasionally to check on things.

I've noticed more and more that he's begun checking my neck for new bite marks.

He always looks comically relieved when he doesn't find one.

We still haven't told anyone what's going on.

There hasn't really been a reason to, or a good time. Once Mom was released from the hospital earlier in the week, I'd begun spending a majority of my time at home with her and Dawn. And if I hadn't been at home, I'd been at the Magic Box or the cemetery.

I've seen my friends less in the last month than I have since the summer I spent in L.A.

So apart from not finding a good reason to tell them, and not really having the time, I've also found that I don't really want to.

That I don't think it matters.

Not that it doesn't _matter_ , because of course it does. But the longer I have to think about it, the more time I spend with Spike, the less it feels like what other people will think, or do, or say...matters.

That, and every time I've brought it up, Spike gets this weird, distant look on his face and I get a twisty feeling in my stomach.

The only one who know's there's anything going on at all, besides Giles, is Dawn.

And she actually knows more than he does at this point.

Including how difficult it's been over the past few days for us to keep things…platonic.

It gets more difficult by the day.

I know it's the connection, the fact that it hasn't been completed. It draws us to each other more powerfully each time we're even close to the same vicinity. And we have to be _so_ careful when we are around each other. Barely touching, keeping our distance. The closest we get to one another is when we're sparring, and even then, what brief contact we make with each other is almost too much.

Giles had convinced us, a few nights back, that it would be prudent to wait until we could find out whether or not this was a phenomena that had ever happened before. There'd been nothing in his book to indicate that the theory was anything more than just that— a theory. Or that any other Slayer had ever been connected to a vampire the way I am.

He'd been determined to find out the answer to that question before anything moved any further.

Not that his say so is what's going to make the difference in the end. Spike and I have managed to keep our hands, mostly, to ourselves...apart from our sparring sessions…and even then, we'd had to call it quits an hour early a few nights ago.

And it's becoming dangerous. A distraction. Vamps that I've been able to easily take out in the past have given me more trouble lately. Spike had even had a close call earlier in the week.

He'd been fine in the end, but not without giving me a minor heart attack.

It had been armed with this knowledge that I'd found myself at the Magic Box, in the middle of the day, asking Giles if he'd take a couple hours to train with me.

I'd had it in my mind. Exactly what I was going to tell him, the argument I'd make. Everything I was going to say neatly filed away in my head, with bullet points and everything.

That Spike and I needed to just do it. Bite the bullet, complete the connection, and figure everything out afterwards.

I'd just finished wrapping my hands, stretching out my shoulders, rehearsing what it was I'd wanted to say, when he'd stepped through the training room door.

I'd turned to him, opened my mouth, prepared to just come right out and say it. Drop the bomb, so to speak.

But he'd dropped one on me, first.

The Council. The Watchers Council. The same Council that tried to have me killed.

 _Twice_.

And he thinks they're the best people to help us? That they'd even _try_ to? It doesn't make any sense to me.

And I've mentioned that to Giles more than once since I've been here.

"Alright, switch," he's saying now, planting his feet a little more firmly into the training room floor. "Left lead."

"I'm telling you," I say, my voice tense, obeying his instruction and switching my leading arm. I glare at him. "It's a bad idea."

My arm shoots out, a hard left jab that lands directly in the center of the mit Giles is holding out to me.

I watch him wince.

I haven't bothered to reign in my strength much at all. I'm not used to needing to.

Only a week, and I'm already completely spoiled by my nightly sessions with Spike.

Giles pulls his right hand back, shaking it out. He frowns down at me before extending both mits out again.

"The same way drinking the blood that Dracula offered you was a bad idea?" He asks, raising both his eyebrows at me.

I narrow my eyes slightly, throwing three more hard, insistent punches with my left hand.

"The difference being," I huff, slightly winded, and finish the last left handed jab. I drop my shoulder, aiming a hard right cross at the same mit for good measure. "I didn't know what was going to happen." I step back, reaching my arm up and wiping the sheen of sweat from my forehead. "You know _exactly_ what'll happen if Quentin Travers finds out about this."

Giles shakes his head, bringing both hands down. I can see him flexing the fingers of his right hand, expression clouded and uncomfortable.

I grimace.

I probably hadn't needed to throw that last cross.

"They're going to find out eventually, Buffy," he says sternly, matter-of-factly.

I just continue to frown at him, hands on my hips, waiting impatiently for him to be ready to keep training.

After a minute he nods, putting his hands back up in front of me to indicate he's ready to continue on. I step towards him and start alternating left and right punches.

A little lighter this time.

"Especially if this is all as rare as I believe it is—" Giles pauses, frowning. "I saw that coming," he says, eyebrow raised, inclining his head down toward my arm. "You're dropping your shoulder."

I feel the expression on my face darken.

 _He and Spike both._

I lean my head to the side, cracking my neck, and redouble my efforts. I try and concentrate on not dropping either of my shoulders, keeping both arms up and strong as my wrapped knuckles smash repeatedly into the worn out mits.

Giles seems unfazed as he keeps explaining his logic.

Stupid, Watchery, _Watcher_ logic.

"The resources that the Watchers Council has at their disposal," he murmurs, eyes unfocused as he looks off behind my shoulder, "I mean the Central Library alone is just…"

I stop punching abruptly, stepping back from him again and furrowing my brow.

"Don't talk about the books again," I tell him, frowning. "You get all…" I gesture absently between the two of us. "And sometimes there's drool."

Giles rolls his eyes at me, but puts his hands back up for me to continue.

"I'm sorry," he says, sounding a little more out a breath now than he had a moment ago. I continue throwing punches. _Left, left, left_. "But we, we've really exhausted the materials I have here, and we're coming up empty." _Right, left, right_ _again_. "You're, you're still...dropping your shoulder. I can see when you're gonna go with your right."

I grit my teeth, throw two hard right jabs in immediate succession.

Giles scolds me. "You're doing it again!"

I don't know whether I do it on purpose or not, but my hand slips. The last time I throw a right cross, putting nearly my full strength behind it, it misses the mit on his left hand and skids up, slamming hard into Giles's upper arm.

 _Oops_.

"Ow!" He cries out, dropping his hands down and stepping away from me.

"Sorry!" I say, grimacing, backing away myself. "Sorry."

Giles gives me a look, a little like he doesn't quite believe me, but then he nods. But I have a feeling we're probably done for the day.

I bite down on my bottom lip, bringing my hands up in front of my face. I examine my knuckles. They're still a little banged up from where I'd caught myself on the side of a headstone the night before. Spike had been trying to teach me how to block one of his kicks, the one that's always given me the most trouble, and in the process I'd done my fair share of flying into various objects around the cemetery.

" _Keep your head up, pet," he tells me, holding his hand out for me to take, yanking me back onto my feet._

 _I frown at him, letting go of his hand as quickly as possible, dusting the knees of my jeans off._

" _If I keep my head up," I explain to him, drawing the words out, "you're going to kick me in the face."_

 _Spike chuckles, the sound shooting tingles down my back. He steps back, appraising me openly, the slightest hint of a smirk on his lips._

" _And if you're never worried that I am going to kick you in the face," he reminds me, a smug expression on his face, folding his arms over his chest. "You'll never learn how to block it."_

 _I fold my own arms over my chest, pursing my lips and raising both my eyebrows._

 _He sighs._

" _Just give it one more go, yeah?" He asks, dropping his arms down. He plants his hands on his hips, and his lips quirk up into a full blown smirk. "If I'm still kicking your ass after that, we'll call it a night."_

 _My eyes shoot directly to his mouth. The air suddenly grows tense between us, palpable. I watch from where I'm standing, see the slow curve of his lips fade away._

 _When I force my eyes back to his, they're dark. Hungry._

 _Not good._

 _I quickly tear my gaze away from his, clearing my throat and rolling my eyes up to the sky._

" _Fine," I grumble, forcing my voice to stay steady. "But let me state for the record that I hate you."_

 _But there's no venom, not even the tiniest hint of truth in the words when I say them_

 _I unfold my arms, rolling my shoulders back and dropping down into a defensive position. When I look back at Spike, his eyes are bright. Still dark, but shining at me through the darkness._

 _He's smirking again._

 _I watch numbly as Spike tilts his head to the side and murmurs, "No, you don't."_

I close my eyes, thinking about the moment that had passed between us. The same one that's passed between us once, sometimes twice a night, every night for a week.

That look of pure, naked want in his eyes. In mine, too, probably.

The connection between us is going to keep pulling, clawing at us, pushing us toward each other until it's been completed. There's no way around it.

And even if there was, I don't think I'd want to take it.

I open my eyes and blink, refocusing on Giles. He's staring at me, eyebrow raised.

I clear my throat.

"So," I say, looking back down at my knuckles, reaching my right hand up to fiddle with the frayed edges of the wrap around my left. "If I _do_ agree to this, to…you talking to the Council." I shift my eyes back up to his. "I'm the only thing you're going to talk about, right?"

I don't trust the Council. Have absolutely zero reason to.

But that doesn't mean I don't understand why Giles thinks they're our next best option here, in terms of resources. And if they _do_ know something about what's happening with me, what it means, how it'll affect both my life _and_ Spike's…well, that's something that might be worth knowing.

And the sooner we find out if they _do_ know something, the better.

I'm not sure how much longer we can hold out. How much longer _I_ can hold out.

Giles removes the mits covering his hands, dropping them down onto the padded bench behind him and reaching for a towel. "Let's take a break," he murmurs, picking up the towel and mopping his brow with it.

Avoiding my question.

My stomach drops.

"Answer me," I say, my voice dropping down lower, more urgent.

Giles steps around the punching bag, dropping down onto the bench and looking up at me with warm, earnest eyes.

"I'm not going to mention Spike's name, if that's what you're asking," he says, removing his glasses with one hand, swiping the towel once more down his face with the other. "The situation is…" He pauses, exhaling. "... _complex_ enough without adding William the Bloody on top of everything else."

The anxiety threading through my chest eases just a little. I start to unwrap my hands, stepping over the mats and dropping down onto the bench beside Giles.

My eyes are down, focused on my hands.

"But you're gonna tell them about the theory?" I ask, my voice much quieter, gentler now. "About what I did." I reluctantly shift my eyes up toward his. "That I'm…that I'm connected to a vampire."

Giles angles his body slightly more toward mine, throwing the towel over his shoulder and putting his glasses back on.

He sighs.

"I don't see how I can ask them for their resources and never divulge the reason I'm asking," he explains gently, searching my eyes with his steel grey ones.

"I know," I mumble, balling the black wraps up in my hand and squeezing them. I drop my eyes back down to my lap. "It's just I trust these Watchers about as far as…" I pause, glancing up at him again. "... _you_ could throw them."

Less than that, even, if I'm being completely honest.

I still haven't forgotten what happened when everything with Faith went down last year, and again the year before that. Wesley, and the whole threatening Angel thing.

And that was so much different than what's happening now. So much…less.

Giles gives me a look, a little ruffled by my comment. "Thank you very much."

I sigh, leaning my back into the wall behind me.

"I'm just freaked about the idea of giving them any information that could make them come after him, or something." I look away from Giles, not wanting to see the disappointed look he's probably giving me now.

I'm giving away the extent of my feelings for Spike, and I know it.

But if the choice is between trying to keep those a secret or keeping him well away from the scary guys in tweed, I'll take option two.

"They already don't like me," I continue quietly, still looking into my lap. "And they don't think a whole lot of you…"

Beside me, I feel Giles stiffen. When he speaks again, his voice is much softer. It's very different from the stern, semi-disappointed tone I've been hearing all week.

"Truly, Buffy," he says, and I turn to look up at him. His eyes are down now, and he shakes his head. "If I saw an alternative…"

"I know," I say, cutting him off. He looks at me, and I force a small smile. "I know, it's just…" I chew the inside of my cheek, brow furrowing, "maybe we should... _wait_."

"Wait?" he asks, sounding suddenly wary.

Like it isn't actually a question.

Like he knows exactly what I'm thinking.

"Well, yeah," I say, letting my head loll back against the wall, turning my face toward him. "You know…just until…everything's…" I shrug casually, " _finalized_."

 _Or until forever_ , I think. _Forever's good_.

Giles nods, his eyes down, leaning forward to brace his arms over his legs. "You mean after the claim is completed."

And there's that disappointment, again. I knew it couldn't have gone far.

I sigh, turning my eyes up to the ceiling. "It's going to happen one way or another, Giles."

And it's true. It is.

It's a feeling as inevitable as anything else. It's settled itself down deep in my bones, as much apart of me as knowing the sun is going to rise.

Not that I understand everything that it means, everything that's going to happen afterwards. I just know it's going to happen.

Giles though I think is still clinging to the notion that it might not have to.

"And you think it wise to wait until the connection is fully complete before we find out if there's any additional information we might need?" He asks, the tone of his voice leaving no room for interpretation as to what he thinks is the right move here.

It's a little softer than it had been a moment ago, though.

I glance up at him, feeling a little weighed down. Almost torn.

I know Giles hates the idea of me being connected in any way with Spike, let alone knowing that there's going to be a claim involved. I know he hates it, and yet he's tried, sort of, to be as supportive as he can be of it all.

If he thinks we should wait, see what other information might turn up, I know he's just doing it for my own good. What he _thinks_ of as being for my own good.

But he doesn't know. Can't know. Hasn't felt what I have, hasn't experienced the tiny jolts of pulsing electricity that shoot through me any time Spike even just casually touches my bare skin. The look in his eyes when I catch him staring at me.

Demon driven or not, the connection between us is real, and powerful.

And won't be satisfied until it's been completed.

When I don't make a move to respond to him, he nods and leans back into the wall. His eyes are still on my face.

"Buffy, I realize you're…you're _concerned_ about Spike," he emphasizes the word with a little disdain, like he doesn't understand it. It makes my chest tighten again. "But this just isn't something I feel you should be rushing in to without gathering all the information first."

Giles shakes his head, turning his eyes away from my face and glancing toward the far corner of the room, to the stack of books we've spent the last week pouring over. "As far as we know, this sort of thing hasn't ever happened before." When he looks back at me, his eyes are serious, the line around his mouth grim. "We still don't know exactly what we're dealing with."

It's nothing new, this line of thinking. I've heard it from him so many times now I think I could recite it back, word for word.

So I don't know why hearing it now, why listening to it _this_ time, is enough to make something inside me snap.

I make a huffing, exasperated noise and push myself up to my feet, crossing my arms and turning back around to face him.

"We _do_ , though," I shout, frustrated, my cheeks flaming hot.

I pause as soon of the words are out of my mouth, closing my eyes and squeezing my hands into fists.

I'm kicking myself for letting my volume get out of control. I know for sure at least Xander and Anya are outside in the shop, and the last thing I want right now is for them to hear any of this.

I take a deep, shaky inhale and exhale through my nose, eyes fluttering open again.

"It's been a _week_ , Giles," I tell him, my voice still strained, tense, but much quieter this time. "A week of non-stop research and patrolling and sparring and we know, we _know_ , what's happening." I turn away from him, taking a few steps toward the books on the table before stopping and whirling back around. "We know what's supposed to happen next."

Giles opens his mouth to say something, to argue with me, but I hold a hand out to stop him before he can, shaking my head. "And whether you or the stupid Council or…" I gesture with one hand back toward the main shop space, " _anybody_ else approves of it or not doesn't really matter."

I'm not sure if it's what I've said, or if it's the way I've said it. Maybe it's just the look on my face. Whatever it is, I don't really care.

I watch Giles visibly soften, the thin line of his lips relaxing as he searches my face.

Finally, he nods. He isn't conceding to me, isn't telling me that I'm right. But he's dropping it for now, and that's about all I can expect.

He puts his hands down on the bench and pushes himself up. "Have you told any of the others yet?"

I fold my arms tighter across my chest, shaking my head.

"No," I murmur, looking back toward the closed door. Very faintly I can hear the sound of the little bell chiming on the top of the door, of Anya's too-cheery voice as she greets another customer. "Not yet."

Giles considers this, nodding his head and glancing in the direction of the door, as well. It's quiet for a moment.

"Let me just…talk to the Council, Buffy. Just a phone call," he says, his voice low. At the look on my face, he steps closer to me. "You have my word, I'll be as vague as I can."

I look at him, scanning his face, halfway making the decision in my head as I do. It isn't that I don't trust Giles, or that I don't understand why he's so concerned.

That I don't get that he only wants to make the decisions he feels are best for me.

The only problem with this, I'm realizing now, is that I don't think he really knows everything that's best for me anymore.

Finally, after what feels like a very pregnant pause, I manage a small nod.

"Okay," I agree softly, hoping that I'm not making a huge mistake.

My head is a little clearer, the knot in my stomach a little less tight by the time I arrive home. The walk home had been good for me. Allowed me to spend some time alone with just my thoughts, file everything around, shake off the wig factor that had crawled itself into my head and stuck there ever since Giles had mentioned the Council.

I still don't love the idea of him talking to them, even if all he's going to mention is me and the whole Dracula blood thing. But the more I think about it, the less daunting it seems.

Like the telling of the rest of the Scoobies, the longer I think about it, the less it seems to matter.

I know as soon as I step through the front door that Dawn's ordered pizza. Pepperoni, if my nose is on target.

It smells incredible.

I stop off in the kitchen and grab a cold slice out of the fridge, not bothering to heat it up before heading up the stairs.

There's soft music drifting to me from Dawn's cracked bedroom door. I glance in as I pass by. She's lying on her stomach, an open notebook spread out in front of her. Another journal, probably. It's almost all she spends her time doing lately.

I caught her writing about me and Spike the other night, sharing a few choice details in her pages that I hadn't found exactly kosher.

And in true Dawn fashion, she hadn't been embarrassed or apologetic in the least.

She still doesn't know _everything_ that's happened between Spike and I, obviously. I'd kept very strategic parts of the story to myself when I'd finished telling it all to her.

But what she does know is damning enough.

Including comments about the "giant hickie" Spike had supposedly left on my neck last week.

She doesn't seem to notice me standing in her doorway now, and I don't really want to bug her, so I finish the last couple bites of my pizza and continue down the hall to Mom's room.

The first thing I notice when I walk in is that the door is wide open. Her door hasn't been wide open all week.

The second thing I notice is her favorite fuzzy blue bathrobe, discarded in a pile on top of her bed. Which has been made.

I frown, a little confused, and glance around the room. Mom appears a couple seconds later, moving out of the bathroom and out into the bigger space of her bedroom.

She's fully dressed, a brand new scarf tied around her head, and possibly even a little makeup on her face?

Or maybe she just finally has color back in her cheeks.

Either way, I can't help the bright, wide smile that splits across my face when I see her.

"You," I say, my voice light, teasing. "You with the actual clothing, who are you?"

Mom gives me a look, something between a real smile and a look of genuine embarrassment. I toss her a playful wink and turn around, calling through the open crack of the door that connects Mom's bedroom to Dawn's.

"Dawn," I shout softly, a smile in my voice, "come look at this."

I turn back toward Mom and she's really smiling now, her hands resting lightly on her hips.

"It's hard to recognize me, huh?" she asks, gesturing to her clothes.

It's meant as a joke, but it actually kind of _is_. It feels like its been ages since I've seen her wearing anything other than a hospital gown or that blue robe. Even when she'd been home, those couple days before surgery, she'd never really gotten dressed. Unless sweat pants and an old t-shirt count as being "dressed". The way she looks now, the real clothes and the hair done, the bright color in her cheeks and her eyes. It's all Mom.

All Joyce Summers.

The last of the knot in my stomach melts away as I grin at her.

Behind me, I hear the door creak open as Dawn pokes her way into the room.

"Whoa," she says appreciatively, a teasing quality to her own voice. She glances at me, and I fold my arms over my chest.

"No more bathrobe," I say proudly, and we both smile and turn to look back at our mother.

Mom nods, still looking just a little sheepish. "I looked at it today, and there it was," she looks down at the pile of robe on her bed, making a face at it, "all fuzzy and blue, and I just…" she sighs, turning to look back at Dawn and I, "couldn't stand it any more."

I grin at her, lowering my voice conspiratorially. "I don't think the rest of us will miss it much either."

Beside me, Dawn makes a little teasing noise of agreement. "It was getting a little ripe, Mom."

I mock frown, thinking it over in my head. I turn toward my sister.

"Maybe we should burn it."

Dawn nods, looking thoughtful.

"It would keep the bugs away."

Mom makes an indignant noise, drawing both of our eyes back to her. I can see the corners of her lips are curved up in a smile.

"It doesn't _smell_ ," she insists, looking back and forth between the two of us. I raise an eyebrow at her, and Dawn just smirks a little beside me, folding her own arms up over her chest.

"Fine, fine," Mom chides us laughingly, her eyes bright as she holds both her hands palm up in front of her. "Make your funny jokes at the expense of the woman with the hole in her skull."

She turns away from us, walking over to the far side of her bed and sitting down. She leans back into the pillows, giving both of us a look.

I smile at her, nodding an unspoken understanding.

"Let's go," I say, turning toward Dawn, my voice softer. "I think we've tired her out."

Mom watches both of us leave with a smile on her lips, but I don't miss it when she gives a little tired sigh once we've cleared her doorway.

She's still tired, I know. Still working hard to recover from the surgery. She's actually doing better than I'd even expected.

I wander down the hallway and pad into my bedroom, grabbing up a magazine and settling down on my bed. The sun is just about to set, which means I have a little while before I really need to leave for patrol.

Which means I have a little while to finish settling my nerves, getting all the whirling thoughts in my head to calm down.

I don't look up when I sense Dawn standing in my doorway, just keep my eyes down, only half seeing the pictures on the glossy pages before me.

"Whatcha doin'?" She asks, and I can see out of the corner of my eye that she's leaning on the door jamb.

The corners of my lips quirk up, but I keep my eyes down. "Playing soccer."

Dawn takes a step further into the room, fidgeting with her hands a little bit in front of her. "Can I hang out in here?"

It's funny, she doesn't normally ask.

In fact, over the past few days, she's been waiting here for me when I've returned home from patrol, or sparring with Spike. Sometimes she's already asleep, so I just let her rest beside me in my bed. Other nights she's still awake, hoping for a new development to write about in her journal before returning to her own room to sleep.

I put on a show like it annoys me, but it's only that. A show. We both know I don't mind. Actually, it's been really nice. Having someone to talk to about it all.

Even if I don't share absolutely _everything_.

"Don't touch anything," I murmur teasingly, and I do look up at her now, giving her a wry smile.

She smiles back, walking further into the room and stopping in front of my vanity mirror.

"No pictures of Spike yet," she murmurs, eyes raking around the frame of the mirror, taking in the various photographs along the edges.

I glance up from my magazine, both eyebrows raised. She turns to look at me, rolling her eyes whens he sees the expression on my face.

"Well you had pictures of Riley," she explains, turning toward me and crossing her arms. She raises her eyebrows to mimic mine. " _And_ Angel."

She's been doing this all week. Dropping subtle, and sometimes not so subtle, hints to me about me and Spike. About our "relationship." And no matter how many times I try and explain that the thing that's between us is different than your average, run-of-the-mill, I like you and you like me type thing...she either doesn't hear me, or just doesn't care.

Not to say that whatever's between us is less than any of the relationships I've ever had...it's just different. More, maybe, when I actually take the time to think about it.

Which tends to sort of wig me out, so I don't do it a lot. I'm happier being action girl.

I sigh, biting down on my bottom lip and closing the magazine. I shake my head, searching her eyes with mine. "It's not really the same thing."

Dawn nods knowingly.

"No," she agrees, crossing the room and plopping down onto the edge of my bed. "It's way bigger."

I raise my eyebrows again, deciding to ignore the notion for now that's she's basically echoing the thoughts I've been having all week. "It's way _complicated_."

Dawn shrugs. "Not really."

She says it quickly, breezily. Like it's the only possible truth.

 _Not really._

"How you figure?" I ask, fighting to keep my expression neutral. My lips want desperately to curve up into a smile, listening to her talk about it. Her fourteen year old brain rationalizing it in a way I don't mind ever could have.

I watch as my sister leans back on her elbows, getting comfortable. She turns wide, blue eyes on me.

"You guys are already connected," she explains, dropping her voice down a little lower. Probably an effort to be disrupt, but I'm pretty sure Mom isn't listening anyway. "You've got the emotional stuff and the physical stuff…and that all happened on it's own." She considers what it is she's just said, what she wants to say next. Her eyes drop down to the comforter, then slowly back up to mine. Her brow furrows. "You don't think this is gonna happen on it's own eventually, too?"

 _No_ , I think dryly, still fighting to remain impassive, _I_ know _it will_.

She hasn't told me anything new, nothing she hasn't pretty much expressed to me before. Nothing I haven't already thought myself, probably more than once. That it's no longer really a question of _if_ , but a question of _when_.

 _And that when keeps getting moved up._

I don't say any of this, though.

Instead, I sigh, shifting slightly on the bed and say "Eventually could be years from now, Dawnie."

Her eyes go comically wide and she sits up straight. "You're gonna wait _years_?"

Dawn's voice is louder than I think she's meant for it to be.

"No," I assure her quickly, putting my hand out to remind her to keep her voice down. She nods sheepishly. "We're not…gonna wait years." I pause, thinking over the conversation I'd had with Giles this afternoon. I tilt my head to the side, eyeing my little sister.

"Giles does want us to wait, though," I tell her, leaning back into the pillows. "At least until we figure some stuff out."

Dawn shakes her head, leaning back onto the mattress again. Her eyes travel back toward the mirror of my vanity.

"I guess I don't see what the big deal is," she says.

And there's the issue. Dawn makes for a great sounding board, and honestly, she's pretty much been on my side through everything I've told her about all this.

But it's moments like these when I remember how young she is. She's so smart, and super perceptive, but she's only fourteen. And still my little sister.

And has no idea what the "big deal" is about her older sister, who's the _Slayer_ , being mated to a Master Vampire.

Although, I guess that that can be partially blamed on me. I'd never fully explained to her what it is that a claim actually does.

I'm still not sure I understand all of it myself.

"It's a really big deal, Dawn," I say, sliding the magazine off my lap and looking down, playing with the hem of my shirt. "Huge. Huge, big…" I close my eyes, open them again and look at her, " _massive_ deal."

She turns her face toward me, eyebrow corners of her lips are turned down. "How big?"

It's a loaded question, whether she realizes it or not. And there are so many possible answers.

 _Life changing big. Potentially really dangerous big. Impossible to wrap your head around big._

I settle on the one that I feel carries the most weight.

"Forever kind of big."

Her eyes go wide again, her voice much softer as she repeats the word. "Forever?"

I nod, wrapping my arms around my waist. "Spike said it's…like marriage…" I shrug. "Except forever."

"Oh," she says softly, blinking at me.

"Yeah," I say, exhaling the word on a sigh and turning to look out my bedroom window. "Exactly. It's not as simple as–"

Dawn cuts me off abruptly, her brain already half way down a completely different train of thought.

"So Spike's gonna be like…" She trails off, searching for the right word. Her eyes light up. "My brother-in-law?" She looks at me with wide eyes, her voice pitching higher with something that sounds an awful lot like excitement.

And it's funny, but the excitement in her voice is a little bit contagious.

 _Even with the whole forever thing looming over my head._

"Really?" I ask, trying to hide the smile threatening to curve my lips now. " _That's_ what you're taking from all this?"

Dawn ignores me, unfazed, and shifts around to fully face me. "Do you love him?"

I freeze, staring at her. My smile falls.

 _Do you love him?_

It's a question I've found myself asking every once and a while over the last week. More and more often, ever since the night I first slipped and mentioned it out loud.

Each time I do, I come up short. I don't have an answer.

Even if I _did_ , there's been this niggle in the back of my mind, asking if whatever I do feel for the bleached vampire might only be part of the connection. That any emotional ties, any feelings I have or him, come along with everything else.

And then I'd had to wander down the path of "just because it's a side effect of the connection, does that mean it isn't _real_?" Which had only left with more questions instead of giving me the one answer.

I'd been actively avoiding the question ever since.

I don't think I can avoid it now, though. And Dawn's looking up at me with her wide eyes, such an innocent, hopeful expression, and I want nothing more in this moment than to be able to just be honest with her.

Be honest with her, and protect her, and shelter her from the truth all at once.

To find a way to explain to her that she's asked me a simple yes or no question. And that there is no simple yes or no answer.

That life isn't easy like that.

 _My life especially_.

I take a deep breath and exhale through rounded lips.

"I don't know," I say softly, meeting her eyes once again with mine. "I have feelings for him." I nod, smiling just a little. "I do. And they're…they're strong."

I turn away from her again, thinking about what it is I want to say next. How much of the truth I'm going to reveal.

To her, and to myself.

I have feelings for Spike. Strong feelings. Strong, urgent, primal feelings that scare me, make me feel like I'm not in control. That feel all at once like they just sprang up out of nowhere and like they've been lying dormant inside me my entire life all at the same time.

It's more than even I can understand, let alone expect Dawn to.

I turn my gaze back to hers and sigh, settling on the simplest version of the truth that I can find.

"But I don't quite understand them."

Dawn seems to consider this for a minute, her big eyes never leaving mine. Finally, she pushes herself up until she's sitting straight, and she shrugs.

"Maybe that's okay," she says simply.

The words hit me hard.

I've spent so much time trying to analyze how I feel, then trying not to analyze how I feel, that I haven't taken the time to really consider that maybe it isn't something that has to be figured out. That it might be something that just has to happen on it's own.

I look at my little sister and smile, giving her a small nod.

"Yeah," I murmur, the smile falling slightly as I turn to glance back out my bedroom window.

The sun is down now, the sky growing darker by the minute. I lean forward slightly, looking for the telltale plume of curling smoke that tells me Spike's outside, waiting for me.

The way he has been every night this week.

I see it, and I sigh, feeling the tension in my shoulders relax just a little bit.

I turn back to Dawn, reaching out to squeeze her arm lightly. "Maybe it is."

We make a quick sweep through the cemeteries, not doing much talking, hurrying to get through the task at hand so we can end the night in Restfield with a sparring session, in the open patch of overgrown grass directly outside of his crypt.

Again, the same way we have every night this week.

Unfortunately, there's quite a bit more to deal with tonight than there has been recently. There's the usual fledgling or two, but there's also a Fyarl demon that I vaguely recognize from the little fiasco we had with Giles last year. It goes down harder than I remember, It's only because Spike has that silver knife on him that we're even able to take care of it.

I'm glad he'd remembered, because my head had been somewhere else entirely and I don't think I would have.

We come across another nest, too. Not a big one, only three weakfish female vamps, but enough to keep us busy for the better part of half an hour.

And throughout it all, through every cemetery, the only thing I feel is _him_. The rhythm of his body alongside mine. The steady, even in and out of his breathing. The tension he carries in his shoulders when he throws his punches. Deadly and wild and graceful all at once.

I feel his eyes on me as I move, too. Spinning and swinging and landing practiced, expert kicks in time with his.

It only get's stronger once we find ourselves alone again.

"So," Spike begins, aiming a kick that would land square against my jaw if I didn't duck out of the way. "How'd things go with your mum today?"

"Good," I reply, sending a hard left jab out toward his stomach.

He blocks me easily.

"Really good, I think." I duck his left handed hook, swinging back toward him with a right handed cross.

He counters my strike with one of his own, spinning around and narrowly missing landing a knee to my ribs.

I dodge it just in time.

"Yeah?" He asks, sounding a little out of breath as he spins back around and drops into defensive position.

I nod, racing toward him, delivering a series of three different kicks.

"She put on real clothes today," I say as my heel connects with his stomach. He blocks my kick to his chest, and I end with a sweeping fan kick over his head that he's able to duck smoothly.

Mostly because I intentionally aim it high.

"You don't say," Spike murmurs, watching me carefully, eyes glittering at me through the darkness. Trying to decide which way it is I'm going to go next.

I decide to feint to the left and go right instead as I say, "Yep."

Spike grins, moving forward into my advance.

"Brilliant," he says, then brings his hand up, wrapping it around my wrist and stopping the jab I've just thrown before it can reach his chin. "You're still dropping your shoulder."

I glare at him, and he smirks at me, using his grip on my wrist to spin me around and pull me back against him.

I grit my teeth, the muscle in my jaw clenching.

"Oh, my God," I groan, bringing my elbow back into his ribs. He makes a noise, something between a gasp and chuckle, and lets me go immediately. I whirl around to face him. "You can keep telling me that as many times as you want, it's just the way I fight," I say, breathless, my chest heaving.

Spike narrows his eyes at me and leans back on his heels, the mirth from a moment ago fading just slightly. "Yeah, and the way you fight?" He puts his hands on his hips. "Gonna get you bloody _killed_ one day."

I frown, taking a moment to shake my hands out. "It's not a big deal."

Spike scoffs, stretching his own shoulder out and fixing me with a hard look.

"It's a _tell_ ," he corrects me, dropping his arm back down, brow furrowing. "And a big one."

I shake my head, tilting it to the side.

I wonder what he'd say if he knew I was intentionally dropping my shoulder just so we'd have this argument again. Something in me revels in it, I think. Watching his eyes narrow, feeling the wash of frustration, coupled with intense anxiety, roll over him when I do it.

Because he thinks it's dangerous.

Because he's worried about me.

The thought has a different kind of warmth feathering through my chest than the heat that's already winding its way through my veins, flushing my skin from the faux fight.

I pop one hip out and cross my arms, the expression on my face growing more challenging than frustrated. "I always managed to beat you."

Spike tilts his head to the side and smirks at me. "Not the way I remember it."

"Yeah?" I ask, keeping my eyes glued to his as he slowly begins to approach me. "How do you remember it?"

He shakes his head, stepping up into my space.

For a moment, just a moment, I think he's going to lean in and kiss me.

He doesn't.

Instead, he moves slightly to the side and reaches down for my arm. I watch, frowning slightly as he pulls it away from where I've crossed it over my chest, extending it straight out in front of me.

"I seem to recall a certain Slayer's mum havin' to come to her rescue," he murmurs, raising my arm up a little higher, wrapping the fingers of his right hand around my wrist and using his other hand to press down into my shoulder.

They aren't touching my bare skin. Each of his hands is only touching my coat. And still I can feel it, the pull toward him, the weight of his touch through two layers of fabric. The scent of leather and smoke filling my senses.

I swallow.

"That was only the one time," I murmur back, my eyes locked on his face, his eyes focused on the hand on my shoulder.

"Still," he says, seemingly satisfied with the placement of my arm, slipping his fingers back from my wrist to ball my hand into a fist. His skin glides over mine, and his eyes flash when he looks back into my face. "Point goes to the vamp."

I catch myself leaning slightly toward him, but he lets go of my arm suddenly and steps back. I quickly drop my arm back down to my side, my fingers tingling, itching slightly, still balled into a fist.

"There," Spike says, his voice rougher now than it had been a moment ago. He steps over so he's directly in front of me. "Now hit me."

I don't hesitate.

I immediately bring my arm back up, shoulder perfectly level as I throw a cross at him. Spike steps out of the, turning toward the punch and catching it, my fist, in the palm of his hand. He glances down and nods, then looks back up and smirks at me.

"Better," he says, and we stare at each other as he brushes his thumb over the side of my knuckles. The smooth texture of his skin is cool against mine, the simple gesture sending sparks shooting down my arm.

And here it is. That moment, the one where the feel of his bare skin sends little electric shocks through my body, where the pull I feel toward him seems to intensify ten-fold.

I look at him, and sure enough, his eyes have gone dark.

From somewhere over to our left, thunder rolls.

"I don't think you should get a point for that night," I tell him quietly, changing the subject back to our conversation from before. I pull my hand out of his grip and drop it down to my side.

He lets his hand fall to his side, too. His eyes never leave my face.

"If Joyce hadn't hit me with that axe," he says softly, and I'm majorly aware of how close we are to each other. How easy it would be for me to lean up and press my lips to his. "You'd 've been as good as mine."

His eyes flash hungrily as he says it.

 _Mine_.

It's the possessive tone in his voice that has me doing it. Moving closer to him, slowly filling in the already tiny space between us.

Thunder rolls again.

I look up into his face, searching his stormy eyes with mine. "You would have killed me."

I don't ask. It isn't a question. It isn't even an accusation.

It's a simple statement.

Spike doesn't look away from me. Doesn't back down. If anything, he moves almost imperceptibly closer.

When he speaks again, it's in that same low, impossibly soft voice. Smooth and sweet and dangerous all at once.

"I would've," he agrees, nodding just once. Our noses are almost touching. "Yeah."

I feel my mouth run dry. The way he's looking at me now, the intensity in his eyes, in the set of his mouth, it's almost enough to make me look away.

But then he reaches for me. Putting his hand on my face, forcing my eyes to stay locked on his.

He just looks at me, shaking his head, the pad of his thumb brushing over the swell of my bottom lip. "And sod all if I wouldn't have hated myself for it."

I swallow hard, finding my voice again. "Now?"

"Now," Spike murmurs, shaking his head even though it sounds like he's agreeing. "Then." If it's possible, his eyes pin me with even more intensity than before, and his voice drops impossibly low.

And when he says it, it's almost as though he seems surprised.

"Can't imagine a world without you in it."

The breath catches in my lungs, skin flaming beneath his touch, body desperately trying to lean into him. What he's said is different, so different from where we started all those months ago.

 _Take me out of a world that has you in it._

His words in my dream, different and the same. Words that had haunted me for weeks seem so hollow now, distant compared to the real thing.

I open my mouth to speak, I think. To say something. But I don't know what, and don't want to risk ruining the moment. So I shut it again, leaning my cheek a little more firmly into his hand.

Spike brings his other hand up now. His thumb slowly gliding along the right side of my jawline, cool fingers reaching around to cup the back of my neck.

"As bloody infuriating as you were," he whispers, his eyes mapping my face, slowly falling to my lips. "As many times as you mucked things up for me, think I always knew…"

I'm breathless, mesmerized. Wholly and completely taken in by him as I feel his body move closer once more, the pressure of him as he leans into me. And I can already taste him, his scent, the flavor of his lips carried to me in the air that's beginning to smell like rain. His mouth is only millimeters from mine.

And he says, "This was always going to happen."

Just as I whisper, "It was always going to be you."

There's a pause, a brief moment where we wait like this. Completely still. Eyes locked, lips almost touching. Knowing that our next move, whichever one of us makes it and whatever it is, is going to change everything.

And then he closes the distance between us and covers my mouth with his, and the world falls away. It isn't the first time he's kissed me. It isn't even the first time he's kissed me this week. But for everything it means, for everything he's pouring into it, how slow and luxurious, the languorous slide of his tongue against mine.

It might as well be.

A bright bolt of lightning streaks across the sky, and there's another loud rumble of thunder that follows almost immediately.

And then the sky opens.

It isn't just a few sprinkles, a small, gentle rainfall. It's an all out deluge. Huge, cold drops of rain pouring down on us in sheets from the sky, landing with plops and splashes and pittering sounds all along the leather of Spike's duster. I can feel them soaking into the wool of my coat, seeping through one layer of fabric and down to my shirt, sinking into my skin.

We're soaked almost instantly.

It's freezing cold, and far from comfortable. The wind whips up, sending drops of rain biting and stinging into the side of my face where Spike's hands don't protect my skin.

It hurts, and I'm shivering, but I can't get myself to care.

Not when Spike's hands are on my face, long fingers threading back into my quickly dampening hair. Tangling in the wet strands, pulling me closer and closer against him. Kissing me with so much urgency, such unimaginable passion. Inhaling deeply, breathing me in. Like he has to steal the air from my lungs to survive.

And I'd let him, too. If that's what he needed.

I'd give him anything in this moment.

 _But all I have to give him is me._

He pulls back from me suddenly, and we stand there for a moment just staring at each other. Both of us a little dazed, blinking the heavy drops of rain out of our eyes. His hands are still holding me, cool fingers colder than usual against my cheeks.

Mine have found their way inside of his duster, pressing into the small of his back.

"Do you want this?" Spike asks, pulling one hand off of my face and running it softly over the wet tangles of my hair.

I know what he's asking, know what "this" is. What it means.

On the surface, he's asking about the claim. Whether I'm ready or not, if I think it's okay to do it.

If that's what I want.

It's what he's asking, at face value. But I also know what he's really asking.

 _Do you want me._

I can see all of it there in his eyes. They're dark, commanding, intensely focused in on mine. Anxiety, need, insecurity and desire and the same fierceness that characterizes everything Spike does. Every move he makes.

For as reckless as I know him to be, as wildly impulsive, he's also so incredibly intentional.

Nothing is ever halfway.

And this with me...this is no different.

So I understand what it means, what it is I'm really saying when I nod and whisper, "I want this."

 _I want you._

It happens before I can even blink.

One moment we're standing outside in the rain, getting soaked to the skin, blinking the water out of our eyes.

And the next we're standing in the bone dry, dimly candlelit space of Spike's crypt.

I only realize once we stop moving that it happened so fast because Spike had picked me up.

I'm still cradled firmly in his arms, both my hands gripping his shoulders so tightly I'd swear there are holes from my nails in the leather.

I turn my face up toward his, blinking, and open my mouth once again to say something. Maybe to scold him, maybe to tell to him to give me some warning next time. I don't know.

It doesn't matter, though, because I never get the chance.

His mouth is covering mine again, kissing me as wildly, as desperately as he had outside.

Any words I'd had die on my lips, turning instead to a soft moan My hands go limp, slipping down from his shoulders, down to the spot on his chest I'd found for myself over a week ago.

The place I'd feel his heart beating if it were.

"No talking," Spike murmurs headily, nipping gently at my lips once before capturing them again. He pulls away slightly, just enough that his lips are only ghosting over mine. He shakes his head, and I can feel his chest heaving under my fingertips. "No more talking."

I have no reason, and absolutely no desire, to argue with him.

I know why he's saying it, why the command is made with such urgency. It's all we've done for a week. Talk, talk about almost everything except for this moment right here, what it is we're about to do. We've talked, and researched, and patrolled, and talked some more.

Now isn't the time for talking.

I nod to show I've understood, that I agree, and he leans forward to part my lips, pushes his tongue past them and groans into my mouth.

He slowly lets me down, never pulling away from me. My feet find the ground just in time for his hands to work their way in between our bodies, unbuttoning my coat in a flurry and shoving it away from my shoulders. I only dimly hear it land on the concrete floor before his arms wrap around me, pressing the full length of my body against his.

I slide my hands up from the middle of his chest, up to his shoulders, pushing the lapels of his duster aside. I whimper into his mouth, tugging impatiently on the wet leather, wanting desperately to get to the damp cotton sticking to his skin underneath it.

Spike pulls his arms away from me just long enough to divest himself of the offending coat before they're back around me again, holding me more tightly than before. I can feel his hands, how strong, how possessive they feel through the thin, wet fabric of my shirt. They're almost warm against my chilled skin when he slides them up and around my shoulders, moving them slowly down my bare arms.

I press one last wild kiss to his mouth, sucking his bottom lip between my teeth and nibbling softly on it before I pull away, fisting my hands in the hem of his t-shirt. I yank hard, whipping it up and over his head in one quick movement, tousling his already mussed hair even further in my hurry, letting it drop to the ground with a wet slapping sound.

And then I freeze.

It seems to hit me all at once, from all sides as I stare at him. I fully realize where we are, what it is that we're about to do. That it's Spike that's standing in front of me now. Shirtless and wet, little droplets of water ringing from platinum curls and dripping onto his bare shoulders, slipping down across the expanse of his bare chest. And I look at him, a burning starting in my center as my gaze rakes heatedly over the exposed skin. He's so unbearably, blindingly perfect.

And mine.

The word sends a sharp jolt through me as I think it. _Mine_.

A surge of adrenaline, of intense, blood boiling possession steals over me. It's raging, wild, zero to 60 in less than a second and I launch myself forward, plundering his mouth with mine, gripping his hair in one hand and dragging the nails of my other hand down his chest. Hard, hard enough I'm fairly sure I've drawn blood.

Marking him.

The reaction from Spike is instant. He leans into me, growling hotly against my lips. I feel his grip tighten on me, hands slipping underneath my shirt and pressing his nails hard into the swell of my lower back.

I dimly understand through the haze in my head why it is they call this a claim. That's what it is, what we're doing. Marking each other. Not as territory, or property. I think it's something much simpler, much more pure than that.

The most basic, primitive notion of belonging. Belonging to someone else.

I pull back, letting my grip on him loosen just slightly, blinking my eyes open to look up into his. And I can see it. That he's thinking what I am, realizing what I have.

Everything seems to slow down in this moment as we stare at each other, the light from the few candles still burning casting flickering shadows of ourselves against the crypt's far wall. The strong urge to possess him is still there, but it's quieted with knowing. Knowing it's about to get what it so desperately wants.

Spike watches me now as he slowly drags his hands around from my back, across my hips, slipping his fingers beneath the hem of my shirt and tugging upward. The material is still damp, and it clings to my skin as he pulls it up, over my head. I put my arms up to help him, and he pulls it the rest of the way off, over the tips of my fingers.

His eyes are glued to me, riveted, raking slowly down my exposed torso as he drops the shirt to the ground.

I don't wait for him to make the next move, letting his gaze stay on me, burning into me, as I reach up and undo the clasp on my bra. I pull it off quickly, letting it fall to the floor at my feet.

And we're even, now. Shirtless, wet, vulnerable. Bare. I can feel the wet ends of my hair plastered to my skin, little rivulets of freezing water falling from the strands, dripping down my back.

And I realize why I don't feel an intense desire to reach up and cover myself. Because I'm already his. This, what we're doing now, it's only making it official.

He reaches for me again, this time wrapping his arms full around me and lifting me up, my legs automatically going to close over his waist, stretching the wet denim as I do.

I curve my arms around his neck, pressing myself against him, breasts flat, pillowed into his chest.

We don't kiss. Not really. His lips are close to mine, almost touching but not, and I can taste him on my tongue. But it's his eyes I can't get enough of, what I can't look away from.

Spike walks us backwards, probably only a few feet, until we reach his the armchair. He sets me down again, drawing his hands up, over my hip bones, up the flat plane of my stomach. He pauses just long enough to gently cup a breast in each hand, drawing a sweet, soft moan from both of our lips before continuing his path up to my neck.

I watch his face, his eyes, as he splays both hands across the curve where my neck meets my shoulder. The swirling, midnight blue lands once more on the mark on my throat.

"My soft, gorgeous Slayer," he murmurs hotly, moving closer to me. "My Buffy."

And he brushes his thumb over the mark when he says it, when he says my name.

He captures my lips immediately after, swallowing my moan, parting my lips and teasing me with his tongue.

The combination of it all, of him, of me, of everything we are together is too much. I can't wait. I can't wait one more minute, one more second.

My hands fly to the waistband of his jeans, dipping inside, moving around to his belt buckle and hurriedly undoing it. I yank it off, finding the button and snapping it open, pressing myself into him as I pull down the zipper.

And Spike is even faster than I am. He has my jeans unbuttoned, halfway down my hips before I can even get his belt undone.

We help each other clumsily, our kisses growing more wild, frantic by the second. I kick my shoes off in a rush, letting Spike break our kiss to bend down and pull the damp denim off my ankles, tugging them off, taking my socks with them.

He doesn't wait for me to finish helping with his, yanking them off while he's down there, letting my fingers tangle in his hair.

Spike's just kicked them away from him, sending them skidding across the stone floor, when I twist my hand harder in his hair and pull. He surges up my body, hands skimming along the outside of my calves, my thighs, my waist, my rib cage. Finally coming to rest along my back, pulling me hard against him, finding my lips once more with his.

After a breathless moment, both too long and too short at the same time, he pulls away from me. His chest is heaving, brushing against mine with each rise and fall.

My skin is so sensitive every where, raw, the smallest touch is enough to make me whimper against him.

He drops down into the arm chair, pulling me down on top of him. I'm poised over his lap, can feel him, hard and smooth beneath me. My inner muscles clench desperately. Empty. Aching. Everything is tender, exposed, the blood rushing in my veins making everything feel heightened, the burning sensation in my core spreading upwards, infusing every muscle with coiled tension, delicious want.

I believe in this moment that I've never needed anything as much as I need him.

His eyes never leave mine as he lowers his hand between my legs, sliding his middle finger slowly over my slit, swirling it slowly around in the wetness there. We both make gasping sounds as he pulls his finger back, pressing it lightly against my clit as he does.

"Oh," I breathe, lashes fluttering.

And I'm going to explode. Explode and crumble apart, combust into dust myself, if I can't have him soon.

Now.

"Oh, God," I whimper, my legs beginning to shake, muscles twitching in anticipation.

"Shh," Spike whispers, wrapping his hands around my rib cage, his thumbs hooked gently just below the bottom curve of my breasts, his fingers splayed over my shoulder blades. I can feel the borrowed heat, the slick wetness from my arousal that's coating the middle finger of his right hand, burning into my back. "I've got you."

And he does.

He lifts me effortlessly up, his fingers digging more firmly into my back when he sets me back down. He leans toward me, pressing his forehead into mine as he pulls me slowly, inch by agonizing inch, down onto him.

I can't help the strangled moan that escapes once he's fully inside of me, eyes closing, my parted lips grazing his on an exhaled gasp.

It's so much. So, so _much_. So perfect.

Such pure, complete relief and a new, torturous ache of a different kind starts to build. Feeling his damp skin against mine, how he fits me and pushes me to every single limit I have at the same time.

We just sit there for a moment, completely connected, my pelvic bone flush against his. I force my eyes open, locking them to his. I have to move. I have to move, need to create the friction my body is crying out for.

I dig my nails into his shoulders and lift myself up, moaning softly when I lower myself back down.

Spike leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to my lips, swallowing the mewls coming from my mouth. Inhaling deeply, fingers digging just a little harder into my back as he begins to help me build our pace. Lifting me up, lowering me back down again.

The rhythm builds so slowly.

Soft at first. And slow, _excruciatingly_ slow, and languorous enough for me to feel every inch of him as I push myself up, and again as I recapture him on the way down.

And all the while, Spike is letting out small growls, groans. These strangled, masculine whimpers as we move together. Rumbling litanies of praise, soft curses that make every thing in me flame higher. Murmuring sweet, hot words against my lips, into my skin. Trailing wet, open mouthed kisses down my jaw.

" _So good, pet. So..._ fuck _...so hot."_

Across my neck.

" _Burn me up, you do."_

Over my collarbone, my shoulder.

" _That's it, my sweet girl. My Slayer."_

And all the way back up again.

" _Just like that."_

At one point he stops, laving his mark with his tongue, sucking the tender skin into his mouth. My inner muscles clench around him, and I gasp, my hands threading through his hair just as I feel him twitch inside me.

And I'm so close I can taste it. So close to the edge, just needing that one thing, that stinging, burning pull of my blood as he draws it past his lips.

"Spike," I manage, his name coming out a breathy moan. He pulls back away from my neck, blinking dazed, dark, lust glazed eyes at mine. I start to quicken our pace, watching his lashes flutter, his nostrils flare.

"What is it?" He says, dragging his fingernails hard down my back, wrapping his hands tight around me waist. The pain is sharp, and so welcome, lessening the ache between my legs slightly. "Tell me what you need."

I lean forward, letting my lips ghost across his.

" _Please_ ," I whisper desperately, crying out, throwing my head back when he digs his nails into my skin, pulling me down harder onto him, managing to hit the tiny bundle of nerves deep inside of me as he does.

I whip my head up, gazing down at him through hooded eyes, delirious, overwhelmed.

The moment is so much like my dream. The begging, the heady whisper, the incredible, immeasurable ecstasy of it all.

But it's different, too.

This time I know what I'm asking for.

"Spike," I whisper again, managing to get the words out between the soft moans, coming out in time with our movements. " _Please_."

And as I stare at him, searching his face, his eyes shift from black to gold. Canines elongating to points, ridges forming along his brow.

I turn my head to the side and use my grip in his hair to yank him against me. His fangs split the skin, sinking deep down into his already faded mark and clamping down over it.

If there's pain this time, I don't feel it. Can't feel it. Can't feel anything at all but the throbbing in my veins, my inner muscles spasming around him, the pulls he's taking of my blood. All perfectly timed, synced to each other. Each draw he takes from my throat sends another throbbing wave through my core, each stronger than the last, until my head goes light and my legs are shaking and I can't do anything but cling to him, twirling my fingers in the hair at the back of his neck.

Weak, and spent, and completely satiated.

Spike pulls away from me, closing the bite wound the same way he had before.

He moves around to face me, presses a slow, lazy kiss to my lips and murmurs the word, "Mine."

He doesn't have to tell me what happens next. It comes to me as easily, as naturally as anything else. Like I've known, like I've always known, how to do this.

I nod against him weakly, pressing an equally lazy kiss to his lips, being careful to avoid the pointed tips of his fangs and whisper, "Yours."

A shock wave ripples through me, starting at the very tips of my hair and rocketing down to my toes. It makes my muscles tighten around him again, and he lets out a soft groan.

And the primal urge, that wild possessiveness that had struck me once before, washes over me again. With a surge of renewed energy, I pull myself up off Spike's lap one more time, lean forward, and bite down into his shoulder as hard as I can as I slowly lower myself back down. My teeth break the skin just as he roars, muscles tightening, straining impossibly beneath me before his entire body goes limp.

He drops his head onto my shoulder as I lightly suck at his, using my tongue to massage the mark, to wipe up the blood I've spilled. I pull back, turning my head and resting my cheek against the crook of his neck. There's a shifting sound, and the ridges of his forehead smooth back out again, his human guise back in place.

"Mine," I say softly, untangling my hands from his hair and bringing them down, curling them into his bare chest.

Spike leans fully back into the chair, his head still against my shoulder, wrapping his arms more tightly around my waist.

"Yours," he agrees, nodding against me lazily. He turns his face toward me, azure eyes finding mine. "Always yours."

And as we sit together watching the candles around us burn down, still connected, still completely a part of one another, I think that's probably more true than even he realizes.


	26. Chapter 25

I must fall asleep at some point, because I awake a little while later on the opposite side of Spike's crypt. Lying on top of something soft, on top of something hard, and covered by a thick comforter that looks like a pink quilt I very vaguely recognize as possibly being from the Sunnydale Inn. A sarcophagus, I realize. The one on the far end of Spike's crypt, beside the wall. The one I've caught him sleeping on before.

Normally, though, I don't think there are blankets and pillows covering it.

My first instinct is to call our for Spike. I know he's here, nearby, can feel him as surely as I can feel the hard stone hidden beneath the blanket beneath me. But he's not here, not right here, not touching me like I feel like he should be.

I roll over onto my side, making a soft whimpering sound and blinking my eyes open. I'm not even a little surprised to see Spike standing there in front of me. He's replaced the black jeans I'd pulled off him earlier, but that's all. No shirt, no shoes, not even a belt.

I drag my eyes up from his his, over his stomach, across the nail marks I'd clawed into his chest and up to his face. His hair is as tousled as I'd last seen it, though it's clear to me that it's dry now.

He has just the tiniest hint of a casual smirk on his lips, but his eyes show me something else entirely.

Relief.

I'm almost overwhelmed by it, the force of it, how strongly I can feel it coming from him. More than just a feeling from him, it's like it's coming from me, too. Like his emotions and mine are one and the same.

It nearly steals my breath away.

"There she is," he says softly, stepping closer to the makeshift bed. His eyes are warm when he tilts his head to the side, reaching a hand out and bracing it beside my hip. "Was beginnin' to think you'd sleep the night away."

I can feel the tips of his fingers, the energy coming off of them, even though they aren't touching me. The pull toward him is still there, but it's different now. Less urgent. More peaceful than wild, a gentle, steady draw.

Thought the desire to touch him hasn't lessened any.

I keep my eyes on him, that same steady coursing relief flooding my chest. I wonder why he's feeling that way, but don't ask yet.

Instead, I pull my hand out from the cover of the quilt and put it down beside his, the tips of our fingers pressing against each other. I glance down at them, marveling at how this tiny amount of contact can make every muscle in my body relax.

"How long have I been out?" I ask softly, matching my tone of voice to his. I shit my eyes up away from our hands and back up to his face.

He holds eye contact with me and shifts his hand forward, gliding the tips of his fingers over mine until his hand is covering mine completely, and says, "Couple hours."

He begins to trace tiny, feather light patterns over the back of my hand. His touch feels like silk. The electric pulsing from before is gone, replaced with this, this incredibly soft tingling that excite the nerves in my skin and soothes the anxious knot in my stomach all at once. Like he's actively infusing me with the relief I'd felt from him earlier.

I keep my hand where it is, luxuriating in the feel of his skin against mine, and use the other hand to press into the cloth covered stone and push myself into a sitting position.

Spike reaches his other hand around behind, never ceasing the ministrations, and pulls the pillows up to prop them against the stone wall behind me.

I lean back into them, tilting my head to the side thoughtfully.

"And how long have you been watching me?" I ask, still looking at him. I watch his lips twitch, quirking into more of a full blown smile than the hint of a smirk I've seen since waking up.

He doesn't answer me, but he doesn't need to. Even sleeping, I'd felt him there. Felt his eyes on me.

I'd felt his anxiety, too. There just on the edges of my consciousness, filtering into my dreamless sleep, faded around the edges. How I'd known as soon as I'd woken up that he'd be there watching me.

It is different. How keenly I feel him now. Different than before, so much more strong.

I'm a little disappointed to note that even though the feelings are more acute, I still can't gauge the exact cause of them. Still can't look into those perfect, azure eyes and read his mind.

 _Maybe someday._

I sigh, still feeling a little tired and lean further back into the pillows behind me. Spike leans his hip into the side of the sarcophagus and, unthinkingly, as if on instinct, I twist my hand around so it's resting palm up beneath his.

And in the same way, some unspoken instinct, Spike curls his fingers around me. The pad of his thumb brushing back and forth over the tender skin, the blue veins, on the underside of my wrist.

I blink, letting my eyes stay closed a second longer than I need to. The ache in my head, centered just over my brow bone, pounds softly. Like the tail end of a migraine.

Another wave of anxiety shoots down my spine, causing my eyes to snap back open again.

Not mine. Spike's.

I turn my head to the side, finding his eyes, frowning.

"You feelin' alright?" He asks me, leaning closer. His eyes search mine. The insistent, silken touch of his hand over mine tenses, gripping me a little tighter.

"Yeah," I say automatically, not really thinking about the answer before I say it.

Spike raises a scarred brow at me. I realize that if I can feel his anxiety, his relief, as accurately as I have been…chances are he can feel my uncomfortableness.

My lips purse. "I'm fine," I tell him, subconsciously pressing the palm of my hand harder into his. "Just a little…jello-y."

It's true. I do feel fine. Better than fine, actually. But my head is aching just the slightest bit, and muscles are as spent now as they'd been when we'd finished a couple hours ago. If I had to get up right this second, I'm not 100% sure my legs would support me.

As if on cue, the pounding in my head throbs once, hard, making me wince.

Above me, Spike nods knowingly. I watch the corners of his lips turn down seriously.

"Probably need to eat somethin'," he suggests, shifting his weight to lift himself up, resting the edge of his hip fully on top of the coffin lid. He pulls our joined hands into his lap, the back of my hand resting against his denim clad thigh.

I swallow, my fingers automatically itching to touch him again.

My cheeks grow hot.

 _So maybe that part of all this hasn't ebbed all that much._

"Yeah," I agree softly, shoving that thought aside, knowing he's probably right. The headache and the jello-y muscles are more than likely a combination of over stimulation and blood loss, and I wouldn't exactly say no to a cheeseburger right now.

Or fries. Or a chocolate milkshake.

 _Or all of the above._

Spike chuckles suddenly, the sound rumbling through me. I feel this, too, flooding my veins with warmth.

"Hungry, pet?" He asks, eyes bright as he looks down at me now.

I make a face, wrinkling my nose up. Embarrassed. "You can feel that?"

Spike nods, looking down at our joined hands once more.

" _Corpus nexu_ ," he says, the low Latin phrase falling smoothly off his tongue, dragging his eyes back to mine again. "Wouldn't be surprised if you can feel when I am, too." Then he frowns, something dark flashing in his gaze. "Don't think I have anythin' here that you can..." he trails off, turning his head and glancing back in the direction of his fridge. "Wasn't exactly plannin' on this happenin'." He turns back to look at me, adding a gently amused "Tonight."

I clear my throat, pulling my hand out from beneath his. Feeling suddenly very awkward, highly aware of my nakedness below the pink quilt.

"I know," I murmur, taking my hand and fisting it in the blanket, pulling it up tighter around my shoulders. I look down. "Me neither."

 _Obviously._

Spike reaches for me, entwining my fingers with his and pulling my hand back toward him again.

"I can go get something for you," he says, lifting my hand, pressing a kiss to the tops of my knuckles. I get that feeling again, like the tranquil feeling emanating from him is infusing itself into my blood stream. I blink at him, and he continues to talk. "I can even keep some stuff here...for you." He pauses, lowering our hands again and smiling, head cocked to the side. "If you want."

And I don't get it. Can't tell where his emotions are coming from. One moment there's such fierce, intense concern and the next he's spending all his energy trying to make me relax again.

Not that I don't appreciate it, but what is it exactly he's feeling from me that's making him act this way?

I frown, but nod.

Then my eyes fall to his bare chest and up, to the angry looking bruise that's already starting to show on the curve of his left shoulder. I sit up automatically, ignoring the sudden pounding in my head as I lean forward to examine the mark closer.

I can see where my human teeth split the skin, the itty bitty clots of borrowed blood in the midst of the dark swelling.

Echoes of that morning over a week ago, when I'd woken up with Spike in my bed. Seen the mark my teeth had left in this same way, on this same spot. The streaks of dried blood running down his back from my nails.

And I'd been horrified. Unnerved. I'd made him put his shirt on to cover the evidence of what I'd done.

I don't feel either of those things now. Now, I feel almost proud.

Proud, and possessive.

And a little concerned.

I reach for him with my free hand, gingerly tracing along the top edge of the bruise with the tip of my middle finger. Spike inhales a deep breath through his nose, tilting his head back slightly and letting his eyes fall shut. I feel the muscles in his leg twitch beneath our joined hands, perfectly synched to my own. The softest little jolt of pleasure that I know both of us have felt.

I eye the bottom edge of the mark warily, trailing my fingertip down over it as well.

"Did I hurt you?" I ask, letting my eyes travel from the mark, down across his shoulder, up his neck, landing on his eyes again.

They're dark now, open again, and looking at me in a way that makes me forget all about the pounding in my head for a moment.

I watch as he angles his body toward mine, leaning down closer to me until we're separated by only inches. I blink at him, feeling the fire building in my stomach. Spike tilts his head to the opposite side, the tip of his nose grazing over mine, nuzzling into me.

"Only in the good way," he purrs, and he claims my lips in a slow, searing kiss. Butterfly wings burst open down deep in my belly, fluttering into my core as I inhale his scent and my head goes light all over again. I grip his hand tighter, leaning further into him. He shifts closer to me, free hand going to cup the back of my neck, holding me in place. The hand I have on his shoulder fans out, the palm of my hand exerting just the tiniest pressure over my mark.

And a wave ripples through me, through us both, our muscles tensing and soft dual moans escaping into each other's mouths.

He pulls away from me to press his forehead into mine, lashes fluttering, breathing in a deep, even way that matches mine.

His eyes hold mine as he moves his hand around, dropping it down over the fresh bite mark on my throat. Another tingle shoots down my spine.

I stare at him, and he stares back, both of our hands covering our respective marks and my muscles twitching, legs feeling even more like goo than they had a moment ago.

"This is a big deal," I ask softly, turning my eyes toward my fingers. I press my hand against the mark one more time to let him know exactly what it is I'm talking about. Then I let my hand slide down over his shoulder, to the tensed muscle of his bicep. I stare at it a moment longer before I exhale through my nose, turning my eyes back to his again. "Isn't it."

I don't ask because I don't know. I ask because I need to hear him say it, out loud. Remind me. Ground me.

Tell me again, the weight of the commitment we've made to each other. It's so much more than purely physical. And more than just emotional.

It's all three.

Physical, emotional, arterial. He's in my blood, in my veins. A part of who I am on the most basic level.

I _know_ it, somewhere deep down in my bones, I know it. But I don't _understand_ it.

Spike's lips twitch again, like he wants to smile but doesn't. Like he knows what I need him to tell me. He pulls his own hand away from his mark, putting it back down flat on the blankets beside me.

He sucks his bottom lip under his teeth and nods.

"Yeah." His voice is honeyed, low. "'S a big deal."

I lean back a little ways from him, curling my still-shaking legs up under me, pressing my knees into my chest and wrapping my arms down around the blanket to keep it locked to my skin.

 _Not that it matters if he sees me naked_ , I think dimly, images in my head flashing back to earlier this evening, only a few hours ago.

I prop my chin up on the curve of my knee, blowing a stray strand of tangled golden hair out of my face.

"Feels big," I murmur, holding his gaze.

The pounding in my head makes itself known again.

There's another slow wash of uneasiness from Spike, and I think I know what it's about this time. He leans closer to me.

"Slay..." He begins to say my title, then stops, shaking his head. "Buffy—"

"I don't regret it," I say quickly, cutting him off, blinking wide, earnest eyes at him. "What we did. Whatever it means." I reach out and trail my fingertips over the back of his hand, eyes never leaving his. "I don't."

He surprises me by smiling, cocking his head over to the side.

I frown.

Is it possible I read him wrong?

"I know you don't," he says simply. Then he notices the expression on my face, and he chuckles, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling before focusing on me again. "Connected, yeah?" His eyes spark. "Feel it if you did."

My brow furrows, the pulsing just behind my eyes starting to pound just a little harder. Spike's smile falls, and I get another unmistakable wave of anxiety from him. I feel it settle down into my stomach.

It's there in his eyes this time, too. No. There's no way I'm wrong.

I lift my chin off my knees and say, "Then stop worrying."

But Spike just shakes his head.

"Not worried about that, luv." His eyes turn down from mine, coming to rest on the mark he'd left earlier. That same flash steels over his features again, drawing his brows together. "Thinkin' maybe I took too much."

Oh.

 _Oh._

He thinks he took too much. Too much of my blood. It's why he keeps asking me how I feel. Why I keep getting waves of that wariness, the pulsing bouts of anxiety and concern I feel from him whenever I start to focus in on the ache behind my eyes, the wobbliness in my legs.

And he's looking at me now like it's written all over my face, too. Which it probably is.

I'm sure I'm pale with blood loss, cheeks stained with whatever makeup I'd had on before the rain started, wavy tangles from hair I slept on when it was still wet.

I blink at him, suddenly desperately wanting to pull the blanket up over my head and hide.

"I look that bad, huh?" I ask, my voice coming out squeaky, small.

Spike's eyes flash, his expression darkening, hand flying out to cup my chin so quickly I don't even see it coming.

"Never," he says, and his voice is so strong, so sure, that any lingering insecurities I'd had a moment ago flutter out the window as I stare into blazing midnight blue.

I lean in without thinking to close the distance between us, pressing a lingering, parted lip kiss to his cheek.

When I pull away from him again, he's looking at me like I've just told him the sky is actually yellow and he's been viewing it upside down his whole life.

He opens his mouth like he's about to say something, but he doesn't get the chance. Between us, my stomach rumbles.

Loudly.

I look down, then slowly glance back up. I feel my cheeks heating again.

"About that whole eating something thing…" I trail off, nibbling down on my bottom lip sheepishly.

Spike's lips quirk up and he nods, letting go of my hand and sliding down off the edge of the stone coffin lid. He moves away from me, back across the crypt to the armchair and snatching up the silky looking red button down shirt there.

"Just tell me what you want," He says casually, not looking at me as he slips the material over his shoulders quickly, starting to button it up.

I frown at him, sitting up further, barely noticing when the pink quilt slips down from my shoulders.

"What?" I ask, but he doesn't look back over at me, shuffling around the crypt looking for his duster. "Spike, I can go myself."

I maneuver around the blanket, letting my legs fall over one side of the coffin so I can push myself up onto my feet.

He's back in front of me in a second, one arm scooping my legs back up and the other lifting the blanket. He pushes me gently back onto the makeshift bed.

"On those jelly legs of yours?" He asks, scoffing lightly. He shakes his head. "Don't rightly think so."

My frown deepens.

"I'm fine," I insist, pushing the covers off my legs again, wrapping the blanket entirely around me and standing up before he can tell me otherwise. "You don't have to-"

The dizziness hits me first, cutting me off mid-thought. Like all the blood rushes away from my head, leaving it spinning, heavy. I collapse against the wall of his chest and he lifts me immediately, effortlessly back up into his arms.

He sighs, ruffling the hair at the crown of my head.

"What'd I say?" Spike asks me, the questions obviously rhetorical. His tone is the same as if he were talking to a small, stubborn child and not a very much grown up Slayer. I scowl up at him as he sets me back down, biting back a grin.

"No need to look so smug," I tell him, even though the pounding in my head is back with a vengeance now.

"Look, pet." He leans over me, putting both hands on either side of my hips so he can look into my face. "We...what we did tonight, it matters." His eyes grow serious as he looks at me, searching my face. "It changes things."

He's not telling me anything I don't already know.

"I know that," I say, staring up at him, feeling frustrated and childish all at once. "The connection-"

But Spike shakes his head, making me stop short.

"No." he draws the word out, like he's losing patience with me. "'S not just about...completing the connection." At my skeptical expression, he sighs again, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. "The claim was a _part_ of that, yeah, but it's also something on its own." He leans a little closer to me, and there's indecision rolling off of him. Swirling in his eyes. His jaw is tense, the muscle ticking as he struggles for the words. He knows what he wants to say, he just isn't sure he wants to say it.

And when he finally opens his mouth and forces the words out, I know why.

"You...you're my _mate_ , now," he says, his voice very low. Eyes burning into mine. "You _belong_ to me."

I blink at him.

There it is. That reminder, that bucket of ice cold water I'd been wanting from him earlier. The gravity of what it is we've done, out in the open. His words come rushing back to me, crashing over me in waves.

" _It's like marriage, except it lasts forever."_

" _A mutual claim is unbreakable."_

" _You belong to me."_

Such big words. Such big, massive, important words. I wait for the rush of panic. For the crippling sense of foreboding, the tightening in my chest. For the other shoe to drop, the realization to come slamming into me.

I wait.

It never comes.

No panic. No crippling sense of fear. Not a single thought, not _one_ , that what happened last night had been a mistake. Because I meant what I'd said to Spike a moment ago. Meant it when I said I didn't regret it.

And not just because it had been inescapable.

It's overwhelming, yeah. Majorly overwhelming, and large with the life changing. And it's gonna take time to work it out. To figure out what it all means, for both of us. For my family. To some extent, for Giles and my friends.

But right now, it feels like all of that can wait. While I'm lying here staring up at Spike, reading the concern in his eyes, wrapped up in a blanket that smells like him. On top of a makeshift bed he's built for me.

Arguing about whether or not I'm going to let him go out and pick up _food_ for me.

And it all just doesn't seem so scary. Not so huge.

" _You're my mate now."_

Okay, well, no...still huge.

But we'll deal with it. We'll deal with it all.

 _Later._

"And you belong to me," I say, letting the word roll over my tongue, testing it out. The same way that _mine_ had last night, this phrase gives me the same commanding jolt of pleasure. Of pride.

Possessiveness.

Spike melts into me, bending his arms at the elbow, a soft groan of relief on his lips as he presses them my forehead.

"I do," he whispers huskily, pressing one more kiss to the cool skin of my brow before pulling back to look me in the eyes again. "Bloody hell, think I always have."

It's an echo of the thought I'd had before, lying against his chest. What he'd said to me after the claim was completed.

 _Always yours._

But he hasn't explained everything to me yet. What he meant when he'd begun explaining the claim, other than the M word.

The belonging.

But that hadn't been what he'd started out trying to explain.

"What did you mean before?" I ask, searching his eyes with mine. "About the claim being more on its own...more than a part of the connection."

Spike blinks at me, like he's forgotten he'd brought it up to begin with.

"Right," he says, pushing his hands harder into the coffin beside me, pushing himself back up so he's only leaning slightly over me. He clears his throat. "Part of what claims used to be used for is protection."

I feel both my eyebrows shoot up.

Up until this point, everything having to do with claims has sounded so…well, romantic. The longing and the touching and the whole forever thing. Even if it is a demon thing, there'd been something so inherently passionate about it.

Hearing this now, like it's some sort of…business arrangement. With a body guard.

It doesn't settle well with me.

Which Spike seems to notice immediately. Either feeling it, or seeing it on my face.

Maybe both.

Because he quickly ads "Along with...everything else. There's the desire to take care of each other, keep each other safe." He lifts one hand up, running it down over the crown of my head. He follows the line of his hand with his eyes. I watch as his lips purse slightly, his voice dropping a little lower. "Took a lot of your blood during the claim, pet." He turns his eyes back to me, gleaming in the candlelight. "You're a little weak right now, and that's all I'm trying to do."

The same warmth I'd felt last night during our argument over my shoulder dropping habit spreads through my chest again, but stronger this time. More.

 _Well, when he puts it like that…_

Spike sighs, pulling his hand back. He tilts his head to the side. "Let me, yeah?"

There's still a part of me that wants to say no. Tell him I'm fine, get up and get dressed and go get the food myself. In the end, I think it's the look on his face that stops me. Dark brows drawn together, eyes warm, swimming with that same look I now realize I've seen so many times. So many different times since all of this started.

Concern.

Whether that's the claim or something much more basic, I'm not sure.

So I nod and murmur, "Okay."

Once he's gone, I force myself to get up. Spike'll probably not be thrilled when he gets back to see me up and walking around, but I can't just lay around naked waiting for him to come back.

Or I could, but then the eating would be delayed.

And I'm honestly feeling pretty starved right now.

Very carefully, being sure to really take my time to avoid dizziness, I slip out from under the blankets and drop barefoot down onto the cold floor. I use the flickering candlelight to guide me on still wobbly legs back over to where I'd dropped my clothes earlier.

I lift my bra and shirt up into my hands, disappointed that they're still very much of the damp and chilly variety. But it isn't like I've brought a change of clothes, like I'd been anticipating any of this happening tonight.

So I make a face and put them back on, shivering as the cool fabric clings to my skin. I stumble awkwardly over to where I remember removing my jeans and pluck them off the floor, groaning aloud at the damp, stretched denim.

Once dressed, I take the time to glance around the upper level of the crypt. Spike must have spent some time cleaning up after I'd passed out. There are more candles now, and some fresh ones I notice where we'd watched the old ones burn down.

I'm not sure exactly how long Spike will be gone. He'd said ten minutes, but I'm not banking on that. He'd told me he could get everything I'd been craving at Willie's. Something I'd found both funny and interesting, seeing as how I'd never actually said anything out loud about the burger and fries thing.

When I'd brought it up, Spike had just winked at me, throwing his duster on and sailing through the front door of his crypt in a flash of leather.

So if he is only going to be gone ten minutes, that leaves me with about five still to go.

I decide to do a little exploring.

There isn't much to see, apart from the usual. The corner with his fridge, the crude coffin bar top, the armchair, the tiny table beside it that holds a miniature candelabra and what looks like a bottle of some type of wine, or liquor.

And books.

There are three books, stacked carefully one on top of the other, on the small bottom shelf of the table. Frowning, I squat down, reaching in and pulling the stack out into my hands. I settle down into the armchair and place the books in my lap.

The top is a worn, paperback copy of _Gone with the Wind._ I've heard of this book before, obviously. Very generally know the story.

Know how supposedly romantic it's supposed to be.

I frown, turning it over in my hands, scanning the back cover synopsis. I think Mom had read it, maybe. Or I'd had to read it for class and never actually did.

I stare at it blankly for a minute, wondering if maybe this isn't Spike's after all. Maybe Harmony left it here. _Yeah, okay._ Or Dru. _Sure_.

I flip through the pages absently, a lazy little half smile ghosting the corner of my mouth as I shake my head. I place the book over to the side and move on to the next one.

It's hardback, and equally worn. Some mystery novel by an author I've never heard of before, a dust jacket with two daggers crossed, dripping blood down the front cover. This one, I admit, doesn't surprise me all that much. I place it over to the side, too, careful not to let it crush the beautiful paperback beneath it.

I turn my attention to the third and final book, scanning down the front cover absently.

I freeze, slowing down a little when I notice that this one is old. Really old. And heavy.

A weathered and intricately designed hardback cover in a yellow gold, the binding on the spine frayed. There's black lettering and gold leaf across the front cover, the words _Tennyson's Poems_ emblazoned across the top. Down across the bottom, a smaller word-"Illustrated". Curious, brow furrowing, I flip open to the copyright page and scan it quickly, tilting it further toward the candles for better light.

1879.

 _Whoa._

Up, in the uppermost left hand corner of the book, there's a name. Elegantly scripted, the black ink that must have been so dark so long ago now faded to a dusty looking grey, spells out a name. William Pratt.

I freeze, staring at the name. William. Spike's given name. William the Bloody. But this...this is his name. His _full_ name. Could this book have been his when he was still human? Before he was turned. I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry, lifting my right hand up to trail my fingertips over the faded signature. William Pratt. The man inside the monster.

I stare at it for just a moment longer before I start to flip through the pages, delicately running my fingers along the gilded golden edges. My hands are shaking slightly. When I set the heavy volume back down onto my lap and let it fall open, it settles easily down onto one specific page.

It's dog eared and creased, well worn. There are tiny smudges, fingerprints, and scribbles off to the side in the margins. Certain words underlined, other circles. The bottom corner of the wafer thin page is torn. Like it's been read a dozen hundred times or so.

I look up to the top, noting the title of the poem.

 _The Poet_.

Settling back into the armchair, balancing the weight of the tome on my lap, I begin to read quietly to myself. The words sound heavy and foreign on my tongue, but they're undeniably beautiful.

" _The poet in a golden clime was born,_

 _With golden stars above;_

 _Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of_

 _scorn,_

 _The love of love…."_

I stop reading after the first stanza, blinking, my eyes already burning for some inexplicable reason. Already, it's made me think of Spike. Something he'd said to me years ago, what feels like forever now. To me and Angel, both. " _I may be love's bitch, but at least I'm man enough to admit it."_

I sniffle, blinking a few more times to clear my blurring vision before returning back to the poem. I scan the next few stanzas quickly, turning my attention to the second page. This is where most of the markings have been made. Where words are under lines, circled, hastily scribbled notes that I can't read separated off in the margins. I shake my head, squinting down into the pages, trying to read the the illegible letters. Trying to reconcile the book of poetry in my hands, the name on the copyright page, with the vampire I've come to know as Spike.

I read through the first two stanzas in my head quickly before dropping down to the third, where the marks begin, and start reading aloud once more.

My voice is soft, but it echoes, filling the cold, cavernous space around me.

" _Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world_

 _Like one great garden show'd,_

 _And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd,_

 _Rare sunrise flow'd._

 _And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise_

 _Her beautiful bold brow,_

 _When rites and forms before his burning eyes_

 _Melted like snow._

 _There was no blood upon her maiden robes_

 _Sunn'd by those orient skies;_

 _But round about the circles of the globes_

 _Of her keen eyes_

 _And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame_

 _WISDOM, a name to shake_

 _All evil dreams of power—a sacred name,_

 _And when she spake,_

 _Her words did gather thunder as they ran,_

 _And as the lightning to the thunder_

 _Which follows it, riving the spirit of man,_

 _Making earth wonder…"_

I'm cut off by the deep, rumbling male voice behind me. I whip my head around to see him watching me, stepping down into the crypt, a bag in one hand and a smoking cigarette in the other.

" _So was their meaning to her words._ _No sword_

 _Of wrath her right arm whirl'd,_

 _But one poor poet's scroll, and with_ his _word_

 _She shook the world."_

Filling in the words where I've left off, the last stanza. Completing the well-worn poem from memory. He manages a rhythm, a cadence, I never could have imagined giving to the words. They roll off his tongue, melting into me, actual tangible rivulets of warmth wrapping around my shoulders.

There's something else in his voice, too. Like he's reciting all this from memory but wishes that he weren't able to. The emotion I'm feeling from him now isn't anxious, and it isn't angry either. It's more subdued.

And I realize, looking at him, that there's so much I don't know about Spike. That maybe I know his demon better than I know the man it lives inside. And even though it's the demon that I'm connected to, that the thing inside of me is mated with, I find that I really want to know both.

 _We do have forever, after all._

We stare at each other for a minute. Neither of us moves, nor speaks. Finally I snap the book shut, laying it flat back down on my lap again.

"Hey," I whisper, feeling guilty, like he's just caught me doing something I really shouldn't have been doing.

"Thought I told you to stay in bed," he says, quirking a scarred brow at me. He steps further into the crypt, and it's like nothing's even happened. He places the bag level on top of his bar top and turns his back to me, unloading what he's brought back. From where I'm sitting, I can smell the greasy scent of fried potatoes and something distinctly meat-covered-in-cheese-like.

My stomach growls.

I lay the book down flat on the bottom shelf of the table beside the armchair and push myself to my feet.

"You didn't," I say simply, walking around the chair and coming up beside him. "Besides, it would have been more like…stay on coffin, not in bed."

Spike shifts his eyes over to me, brows still raised, placing a little plastic bottle of orange juice in front of me. "My mistake."

I look at the juice bottle, wrinkling my nose. "Burgers and OJ?"

"Mmhm," Spike hums, turning back to unloading the bag.

I frown at his profile, leaning forward to try and get a look at his face. He still doesn't feel angry, exactly. But he doesn't feel all warm and fuzzy like he had before he'd left, either.

"Those don't seem like two very mixy things," I say, frowning.

"It'll make you feel better," he counters firmly, a note of command in his voice that I feel like a shot to my system. Even though he hasn't given me an explicit command, I find myself reaching for the bottle, uncapping it and taking a sip.

I turn my eyes down to the bottle in my hand, then back up to Spike, blinking.

"How'd you do that?" I ask, a hint of the frustration I'm beginning to feel creeping into my voice. Spike takes the last little styrofoam container out of the bag and sets it down on the coffin lid, crumpling the paper bag up in his hand and turning to face me.

"Went to Willie's, like I said I was goin' to," he says slowly, drawing the words out. "Placed an order, brought the food back here—"

"No, no, not that," I say quickly, dismissively, setting the plastic bottle back down. "How'd you do that...thing." When he still isn't looking like he knows what I'm talking about, I sigh, folding my arms up over my chest. "You made me drink the orange juice."

Spike stares at me, both dark brows shooting sky high, eyes wide. "I _what_?"

I turn my eyes down to the bottle again, frowning. "You told me it would make me feel better, so I drank it. But I didn't _want_ to." I turn my eyes back to him, and he looks as puzzled as I feel.

But the way he's said it, it reminds me of something. Another time, another unspoken command. Stopping me in my tracks just by saying my name, that pull, that desire to give him anything he'd ask for when he'd said my name like that again in the cemetery, last week.

This had been like that, but stronger. Like everything else before the claim, everything that had been there before, been happening before. It's all still there, it just feels _more_ now.

"When you said that, just now," I begin, picking the bottle back up and turning it over in my hands, "what were you thinking about?"

I can see the wheels in Spike's head turning, catching up, his eyes darting down to the bottle in my hands then quickly back up to mine.

"That I wanted you to drink it, 'cause I figured it'd help."

The same way I'd been thinking how desperately I wanted him not to leave that night in my kitchen. When I'd asked him to stay, if he would come back.

" _Did you come here tonight because you wanted to, or because I asked you to?"_

" _Bit of both, maybe."_

How he'd wanted to ask me another question, and for me to answer honestly, that night on my front porch. In the cemetery, he'd wanted me to talk with him about the claim.

Even just earlier tonight. I'd wanted to get up and go with him to get the food, but I'd decided to stay here instead. Because he'd wanted me to.

"Is this normal?" I ask, not bothering to clarify, feeling the same realization washing over him as it is over me. I can only assume it's because he's just put two and two together as I have. "Part of the whole claim thing?"

 _Or is this just us._ Another part of the connection we don't understand, haven't prepared for.

"I dunno," Spike says, leaning his elbow against the stone coffin beside him. He tilts his head to the side, eyeing me through his lashes. "But it's botherin' you."

There's no point in denying it. I can see it in his eyes, that he feels my anxiety level rising.

"It should bother you a little bit," I counter, pushing away from the coffin and turning my back, walking slowly across the crypt. "That I could possibly make you do anything I wanted?"

"You want me to answer that question honestly?" he asks, and I can hear the smirk in his voice, know he's probably waggling his eyebrows at me without me having to turn around.

Probably only trying to lighten the mood, but it manages to send a tingling thrill down my spine anyway.

I turn back around to face him, wrapping my arms around myself, rubbing my hands up and down my arms.

"Spike."

And I use the same tone of voice.

The smirk falls instantly, and he sobers. I watch him as he crosses the space between us, stopping briefly to remove his duster and lay it over the back of the green armchair before continuing over to me.

"Hey," he murmurs, putting his hands on top of mine where they cling to my upper arms. He leans down, catching my eyes. "We'll figure it out, yeah? What it means, how it all works." His eyes shift over to the mark on my neck, his grip tightening possessively around me. And it's weirdly comforting, how it feels. And it helps. I can feel the tension leeching out of my muscles, starting at his grip on my arms and extending all the way down, as I stare at him.

Spike pulls me a little closer to him, turning his eyes back up to mine.

"We're both...new at this, luv," he reminds me gently, stormy eyes searching mine. "Not just you."

He's right.

He's told me as much before, that he doesn't have much experience with claims. And neither of us have any experience with the rest of it. For all we know, like Giles has mentioned so many times, this may be the first time a vampire and a Slayer have ever been drawn to each other, connected to each other, this way. The reality of our situation is that nobody really knows, including us, what to expect. How it's supposed to go.

What it's supposed to mean.

I don't know why I always manage to convince myself that Spike knows more about what's happening than I do. Of the two of us, I actually have more resources at my disposa

My stomach drops.

Oh, God.

"And in the mean time," Spike's still talking, rubbing soothing little circles into my skin, "we'll...avoid it. I won't do any secret ordering you about if you won't, and— bloody hell," he groans, obviously feeling the rush of anxiety that's just settled itself in the pit of my stomach. He blinks down at me, frowning. "What's the matter?"

I stare up at him with wide eyes, and the words come out as little more than a whisper. "I think I made a huge mistake."

His eyes flash, expression darkening slightly. I know he's misunderstood me before the words even leave his lips.

"Little late for that now, innit?"

"No," I say, pulling out of his grip, the smell of the food that had seemed so incredible just a moment ago suddenly churning my stomach.

I turn around to glance around the crypt. "No, not us. Something…else." I spot my coat, lying in a heap on the floor where I'd left it, and head straight for it. "I need to talk to Giles. Now." I throw my coat on, hurriedly doing up the buttons and situating the collar protectively around the mark on my throat. "Right now."

Spike hasn't moved from the spot I've left him in.

"About…?" He prompts me, taking in my flustered appearance, the hot flush across my cheeks. The pounding in my head is back, but I don't think it has anything to do with blood loss or being hungry this time.

"Us."

Spike puts his hands on his hips, brow furrowed, head tilted to the side. "Color me confused, pet."

I straighten my coat once more, moving forward until I'm standing right in front of him. I tilt my head back, holding his gaze.

"I told him he could tell the Council," I say, infusing the phrase with as much meaning as I can.

Things grow completely still between us.

I don't know if the words mean anything to him or not. If he understands what it means to me, what they represent in my life.

If the rush of tension I feel from him is actually his, or an echo of what he's feeling from me.

But after a minute he simply nods, turns quickly back toward the armchair. I watch as he plucks the duster up off the back and whips it back on.

"Right then," he says, flipping the collar up around his neck. He turns his body toward mine, holds his hand out to me. "Off we go."

I step forward and easily slip my hand into his, our eyes locked as he entwines our fingers. It all happens so quickly, without thinking. Like it's second nature.

Because I guess it is.

And it's the feel of his hand in mine, the steady brush of his thumb over mine as we make our way through the dark, moonlit cemetery that makes me feel like whatever reaction we're about to face is worth it.

Giles stands there gaping at me, his eyes cold, lips set in a firm line.

He hasn't said anything yet.

Which is worse than the yelling I'd expected.

When we'd first arrived at Giles's apartment, he hadn't looked all that surprised to see us standing there on his doorstep. Tense, yes, but not surprised.

But once we'd stumbled in, my voice pitching high with panic, his face had gone ashen.

"I changed my mind," I say quickly, slamming his door shut behind me and whirling around to face him. "No Council."

"It's too late, Buffy," he murmurs, dropping down onto a bar stool and lifting the tumbler of scotch to his lips.

My stomach flips, cold sweat cropping up along my brow. The pounding is back.

"What do you mean it's too late?" I ask, my whole body going rigid. I step further into the apartment. "Giles?"

He doesn't look at me when he answers my question, just keeps his eyes down, setting the hand around the tumbler of scotch down on the counter. "I already called them."

I frown, glancing past his shoulder to the large clock on the wall. It's only 10:00. Giles doesn't normally lock up the Magic Box until 9:00, and even then, isn't England like…eight hours ahead of us?

Even if he'd called them right after I'd left the Magix Box earlier, it would have been, what…one in the morning there?

 _Oh._

"When?" I ask, turning my eyes back toward my Watcher. I can feel my expression darkening as I look at him, realizing what's happened.

What he means.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, glancing back and forth between me and Spike. "I didn't see another option."

"When?" I ask again, eyes narrowed.

Beside me, I feel Spike's fingers twitch. Like he wants to reach out and grab my hand.

He doesn't.

Giles stares at me, looking very tired. He takes another slow sip from the glass in his hand before placing it down on the counter beside him. "A few days ago."

I'm not even surprised.

And I'm too angry to feel betrayed.

"Call them back," I say, dropping my voice down dangerously low. "Tell them it was a false alarm."

"Buffy, please," Giles says, standing up. "You have my word, I was nothing but discreet about the entire situation. I never even mentioned Spike."

"So, the whole asking my permission thing today?" I ask, throwing my hands up in the air, fixing him with a hard look. "That was just for show?"

Giles blanches slightly, looking apologetic. "Buffy—"

I put my hand out to stop him, shaking my head.

It was bad enough when I'd thought it was me, that I'd made the mistake. That I'd let myself be talked into going against all of my instincts.

This is worse.

If I hadn't come by today, would Giles have even mentioned it at all? Or would he have just called them and never told me?

"These people tried to _kill_ me, Giles," I half shout, anger hot in my chest. "Two different times!"

Spike's hand shoots out, wrapping around my wrist and pulling me back toward him so fast I stumble into the wall of his chest.

"These wankers did what exactly?" He asks me, fingers biting into my wrist, his voice a low growl.

There's rage in his eyes, but none of it's for me.

"Well, one time they didn't know I was me," I mumble, the swirl of emotions coming off the vampire in front of me causing me to stammer, blinking rapidly.

I try and look back toward Giles, but he isn't having it.

Spike's eyes flash, his free hand coming up automatically to cup my chin, keep my gaze locked on his. "And the other?"

For a moment, just a moment, I completely forget where we are. Who we're with.

What it is I came here to do.

Until Giles clears his throat, jarring me. I pull my head out of Spike's hand and turn my face back toward him.

"What exactly is going on here?" He asks, looking between the two of us, sounding like very much like he already knows.

So I don't hesitate in what I do next.

I remove my coat without another word, twisting my tangled hair around my fingers and pulpit over my right shoulder, exposing the fresh bite on the column of my neck.

He stares at me, eyes wide, drifting back and forth between my throat and my eyes. Finally he shakes his head, his voice very low when he speaks again.

"Do you have… _any_ idea what you've done?"

Worth it.

It's worth it, it's worth it, it's worth it…

"Not really," I say honestly, folding my coat over my arm and glancing at Spike. He nods at me, and I face Giles again. "But I don't think you really know, either."

His eyes flash behind the rims of his glasses.

"I can't believe you'd be so reckless," he says, scolding me. He drops his hands down to his hips and turns away from me, shaking his head.

And I remember my ire from a moment ago.

"I'm not a child," I tell him, narrowing my eyes.

Giles whirls back around to face me, reaching up and whipping his glasses off his face in a quick, hard motion as he barks, "Then stop behaving like one."

I take a step backwards, blinking at him. I shouldn't be surprised by this reaction. I think it's what I'd been expecting, anyway.

But despite knowing that his opinion doesn't matter, or at the very least…that it doesn't change anything, the words still sting.

"Oi," Spike growls, stepping forward slightly. "Watch it, mate."

But Giles isn't listening to him. His eyes are glued to mine, pinning me with a look that's part disappointment and part bitter anger. He has one hand on his hip, pointing back toward me with the hand the hold shis glasses.

"You deliberately disobeyed me."

I shake my head, eyes going wide. "Disobeyed you…" I let the words trail off, a short, harsh laugh I don't expect tumbling passed my lips. "My God, Giles, you aren't my father."

Giles opens his mouth to say something, but something stops him.

His eyes shoot passed me, over my shoulder, focusing on something just behind me and to the left.

His face pales, the hard lines that had marked his expression just moments ago falling slack.

"Terribly sorry."

And the voice, the smooth, cultured tone sends a different kind of shiver down my back. I freeze, eyes going wide.

I force myself to turn, angling my body subconsciously in front of Spike's, to glance back over my shoulder. I'm careful to keep the left side of my neck turned toward the far wall.

My gaze meets the cold, steel grey eyes of Quentin Travers. Behind him, standing on the porch, are what looks like four other people. Three men, one woman. All fittingly wearing some version of tweed, I notice dimly, though it isn't enough to alleviate the throbbing pulse of fear that's gripping me now.

I don't know how long they've been there. Have no idea how much they might have heard.

And even if Giles is telling the truth, that he never mentioned Spike to them, it won't matter much now. Now that he's obviously here, standing beside me, the tension vibrating off him palpably enough for anyone to feel it, connected or not.

I watch, breathless, as Quentin's eyes travel over me, across the room to Giles, to the bleached vampire at my side, then back to me again.

He smiles, and I feel like I might be sick.

"I do hope we're not interrupting anything."


	27. Chapter 26

I'm frozen.

Beside me, I can feel Spike's entire body tensing up. Muscles coiled, like he's ready to strike at any moment. If I had the presence of mind for it, I'd probably be trying to actively calm him down.

But I still don't know how all that works.

And I'm too locked in my own sudden, mind numbing panic to try and figure it out.

Giles, at least, seems to come out of his own shock long enough to address his guests.

"Quinton," he says slowly, and I turn my wide eyes back to him in time to see him placing his glasses back on his face. His eyes shift over to mine very briefly, then back toward the front door. "Been a while. I see you've, uh, brought some of our…colleagues with you." He steps around me, angling his body so he's between me and the Watchers at the door, partially blocking me from their view.

I don't realize what it is he's doing until Spike subtly shifts forward, reaching up and whipping the curtain of my hair back to the other side of my neck. Shielding it.

The muscles in my shoulders relax just a little. The tight knot in my stomach doesn't go anywhere, though.

And Giles is still speaking.

"Would you care to introduce us?

Even though my body is angled so that Giles is blocking me from Quinton's view, I can feel his eyes on me. Burning a hole through Giles's shoulder, like he's willing me to step forward and face him. Another rolling wave of nausea hits me and I close my eyes, willing it all to just go away.

"Well," he says, his voice casual, conversational. It sets my teeth on edge, makes the already aching muscles in my legs tense up. Run. That's all I'm thinking about. I want to grab Spike and make a run for it. "First I thought we might...catch up."

The way he says it, it's obvious. Exactly what it is he's come here for, what it is he wants to "catch up" on.

I shift my eyes up, passed the blockade of Giles's shoulder. Sure enough, Quinton's eyes shoot to mine instantly.

"Well, certainly," Giles says, his tone of voice light. If I didn't know him as well as I do, I'd think he sounded perfectly at ease. But there's such strain below the casual timbre with which he's addressing them now. Speaking too quickly, the words rushed. "Certainly. I, uh, I own a magic shop in town now. It's been a very interesting transition into the world of retail. But I think it's gone rather well." He pauses for a moment, and I can practically hear the lightbulb clicking on above his head.

"You know what," he begins again, much more slowly this time. He steps further forward, like he's heading toward the coat rack beside the door. "Why don't we head there now? Quite fascinating, really." From where I'm standing, I can see the forced smile he's plastered to his face. "I'll give you the grand tour if you like."

Relief courses through me, cool as ice, spreading through my chest and up into my cheeks, cooling my skin. And as angry as I am, as stinging as the knowledge that Giles had gone behind my back to call the Council, in this moment I'm grateful to him. Whether or not he knew the Council would be showing up here, I still don't know, but he obviously hadn't been prepared to deal with all of this tonight. And even though I know he isn't doing it for the same reasons I'm thankful he's doing it for, I don't care.

All that matters to me is getting Quinton and his band of merry Watchers as far away from Spike and the very fresh bite wound on my neck as we can get them.

"No," Quinton says dismissively, and any little sense of relief I'd just had a moment ago vanishes completely. He's still watching me as he steps further into the small apartment, the rest of them filling in behind him to crowd the front door. "That's all right." His eyes shift from mine, over to the glass of scotch still perched on the countertop to our right. "I think I can see what you've been up to."

When I hear the front door clicking shut, I fresh wave of panic sets in.

 _They aren't leaving._

Oh, God, they aren't leaving.

Suddenly, it doesn't seem like enough. Even with how thick and heavy my tangled curls feel against my skin, the barrier between Quinton's eyes and the mark on my neck isn't enough. Giles is still talking, saying….something about our new training regimen. But I'm hardly listening. The blood rushing my ears making it impossible to hear almost anything except the erratic thrum of my heartbeat.

"Yes, well, uh...Buffy and I have been training a great deal these days. We have a back room, at the shop. A training room of sorts…"

I turn my back to the front door, pulling my coat off my arm and whipping it back on, doing up the buttons with hurried, shaking fingers until I have the collar turned up in place, protecting Spike's mark from any prying eyes.

Having it fully covered helps, but only a little.

"I'm pleased to hear that you've continued to assist Miss Summers in her slaying duties," Quinton is saying when I turn back around, beady eyes wandering the room. I would love to see a training demonstration while we're here." He folds his hands together in front of his waist, lips turned up in a cold smile. "Perhaps as part of our review?"

 _Review?_

"What review?"

I don't even realize that it's me who's spoken until every eye in the room shoots to me. I blink, swallowing hard.

Giles sighs, glancing at from over his shoulder, giving me a look I can't quite read. Like he's frustrated with me for speaking up.

I frown at him, raising my eyebrows.

 _Like they wouldn't have noticed I was standing here otherwise?_

When he sees that I have my coat back on, the heavy wool collar turned up to shield my throat, he turns back around and moves slightly to the side, baring me fully to the gaze of the four Watchers in front of me.

Quinton's lips twitch, one side of his mouth curving upward in what might be the beginnings of a smile if I didn't know better.

"You might not remember, Miss Summers, but the Council commands some very powerful resources." He steps a little further into the room, the three others filling in closer behind him. It would be enough to make me laugh if I weren't concentrating all my energy on staying upright. "We've discovered some information about this…issue of yours." He turns his eyes over toward Giles, nodding his head. "As we discussed over the phone."

"Yes," Giles says slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Over the phone. I'm afraid I'm still not clear on what exactly is is you're _doing_ here."

But Quinton has already focused back in on me, tilting his head to the side and eyeing me thoughtfully. Like he's looking for something.

He ignores Giles's comment, simply continues speaking.

"Some of it is clearly vital, the rest merely extremely disturbing. And it won't be handed over until we're convinced that you are prepared for it. Thus the review."

My blood runs cold.

The last time the Council gave me a "review", I lost all my Slayer strength, nearly died at the hands of an insano uber vamp and almost lost my mother.

No. Not again.

"I'm not having you put her through another one of your insane tests."

"It's not a test," Quinton counters breezily, turning his attention back to Giles. "It's a check of her methods. We need to know that this information is applicable..."

A check of my methods.

To determine whether or not the information they've found is applicable to my situation.

In other words, a series of tests to determine how far along the vampiric connection in me has progressed. Which means they're bound to find out how far along it has progressed. Which means they'll eventually find out that it's Spike I'm connected to.

The thought makes my entire body flush ice cold with fear, muscles clenching in my abdomen.

And the sudden urge to keep that from happening, to protect the vampire who's been standing silently beside me this whole time, is overwhelming. It pushes every other instinct I have aside, including self preservation.

I turn fully toward the man standing in front of me, stepping forward and squaring my shoulders.

"Mr. Travers..." I begin, my voice coming out much stronger than I expect it to. I'm not sure exactly what it is I plan on saying next, but I have to say _something_. Have to try and steer this whole conversation in another direction.

But Quinton isn't even listening to me.

"We can start with a discussion of this new training regimen," he continues on smoothly, as though I haven't spoken at all. "And that demonstration I mentioned."

A training demonstration. Here. Now?

I blink at him, brows drawing together. "Right now?"

He tilts his head back, eyeing me with mock-concern. "Are you not prepared?"

Unbidden, my hands curl into fists at my sides.

"I think I need a better understanding of this…review," I say slowly, fighting hard to keep my voice measured, even. I fold my arms up over my chest, digging my nails hard into the fabric of my coat to keep my hands from shaking. "Is this all because of what Giles told you?"

I'm expecting Quinton to answer my question, but to my surprise one of the other men he's with, a dark, exotic looking man in a double breasted coat, steps forward and addresses me instead.

"It's an exhaustive examination of your procedures and abilities," he says, eyes casting warily over and behind my right side, to where I know Spike is. "We'll observe your training," he continues, turning his eyes back to me, "talk to your friends—"

"Talk to my friends?" I ask, cutting him off abruptly. My voice pitching high, incredulous.

I blink at him, and he nods.

I've never been more thankful than in this moment that we'd decided not to tell them anything about what's been happening. Willow might be able to keep it together, but Xander...well, I'm pretty certain Xander would give Spike up in a heartbeat.

 _So that's something, at least._

"Yes," Quinton is saying now, placing his hands in his pockets as he steps closer to me. "We understand you're still taking civilians out on patrols."

I take a small step back, brow furrowing, tossing a sideways glance at Giles. He looks back at me, shaking his head.

The weird part is, it actually isn't true. The last "civilian" I had out on patrol with me would have been Riley, and it would have been before he could really be considered a civilian. The only real help I've had with patrol over the past several months has been from…

As if bidden by my thoughts, Spike suddenly steps forward. A low growl emanating from his throat.

"Actually—" he starts to say, no doubt feeling the need to step in and defend me in this one aspect of the conversation he knows he can speak to.

But I whip toward him before he can keep talking, my eyes wide.

"Spike," I whisper, my voice very low, and his eyes turn to meet mine.

The last thing I need is for him to draw attention to himself.

But it's already too late.

"Spike?" A female voice this time. We both turn away from each other, eyes scanning the row of Watchers for the lone woman among them. She's stepped out from behind Quinton, clutching a briefcase to her chest and blinking wide, spectacled eyes at Spike. She swallows, stepping a little further forward. "This…this is the infamous William the Bloody?"

I fight the urge to groan.

 _Good going, Buffy._

Quinton turns cold, calculating eyes back on Giles. "And in your flat, no less."

Panic. Again.

I whip my head around to look at Giles, and I realize I have no idea what he's going to say. How it is he's going to explain this. Whether or not he'll just give it up and tell them everything right here, right now.

I watch, my heart rattling so hard against my ribs that I swear it could crack them at any moment, as Giles sucks in a deep breath.

He exhales slowly through his nose, never looking at me as he says, "Spike has become somewhat of an...ally of Buffy's." He puts both his hands on his hips and turns his eyes down toward the ground. "Over the past year."

I let the air I've been holding in out slowly through my nose, and beside me, the tension leeches out of Spike, too.

I don't know if he'd been as worried as I had been, or if he'd just been feeling the emotions from me. Either way.

"How very interesting," the female Watcher is saying, her eyes studying Spike's face intently. And there's something in them that I recognize, that sets a wild buzzing through my blood. She's almost looking at him hungrily.

Something inside me hardens, the expression on my face darkening.

My hands curl into fists again, but this time it has less to do with protecting the vampire and more to do with defending what's mine.

"Not really," I say the words truly venomous when they leave my lips. I tell myself it has more to do with me trying to push the focus off Spike and back onto me than it does with whatever possessive feelings I'm having, but I think even I know that's a lie.

I step forward, unconsciously angling my body in front of his. Whether to shield him from Quinton's view, or the woman's, I'm not sure.

It doesn't matter.

"Now," I say, turning my eyes back to the stuffy older man in front of me. "You want to tell me again why the hell I should play this little game with you?"

Quinton smiles at me, an almost bitter twisting of his lips that doesn't come close to reaching his eyes.

"Buffy," he begins, and my name sounds so hollow, foreign, the way he says it. "I can sense your resistance, and I don't blame you."

But the way he says it kind of makes it sound like he does. I frown, narrowing my eyes as he continues to talk.

"But I think your Watcher hasn't reminded you lately of the resolute status of the players in our... _little game_." I watch as he steps up even closer to me, still separated by a good three feet, but closer than I feel comfortable with. When he speaks again, his voice is mockingly gentle, calm. Condescending.

"The Council fights evil." He ticks it off one his fingers as he goes. "The Slayer is the instrument by which we fight. The Council remains, the Slayers change." And his voice is so casual, so cold when he says it. Like I'm nothing. Disposable. "It's been that way from the beginning."

Anger momentarily replaces fear, boiling hot in my chest.

To my right, Spike growls.

And to my left, Giles scoffs. "Well, that's a very comforting, bloodless way of looking at it, isn't it?"

For once, all three of us seem to be in complete agreement.

If Quinton's felt the reactions of any of us, he either doesn't notice or care. He simply steps closer to me, eyes locked on mine, and lowers his voice with each of the words that come out his mouth now.

"This mess you've gotten yourself into is a dangerous one, indeed. We can help you. We have information that _will_ help. Pass the review and we give it to you without reservation. Fail the review, either through incompetence, or by resisting our recommendations…"

"Resistin' your recommendations?" Spike asks, his voice just as low, as dangerous as the Watcher's had been a moment ago.

Giles steps in, hands still planted on his hips as he steps forward. "How much under your thumb do you think we are?"

Quinton just blinks, slowly turning his eyes over to my left. He cocks his head to the side. "How much do you want our help?"

I don't hesitate, don't even have to think about it before I'm answering him, the words leaving my lips in a harsh whisper.

"I don't."

Every eye shoots back to me again. But I'm only looking for one pair.

"Pardon?" Quinton asks, the pretense he's been clinging to this entire time melting away, his lips curving down in hard frown.

I shake my head, undaunted.

"I don't want, or _need_ , your help," I repeat, my voice still low. I eye him warily, lips pursed. "I don't even work for you anymore."

The room is so quiet now, so tense as we stare each other down.

To his credit, he seems equally undaunted by my words.

"I understand you think this is unfair," he murmurs, cold eyes pinning me down, like he might be able to see right into my brain if he keeps looking hard enough. "But there are factors which should motivate you to go along with the review." He leans away from me, pulling his hands out of his pockets and crossing them once more at his waist, dropping his eyes down thoughtfully toward the ground. "Now, I don't want to do this, but obviously we could pay a visit to your friend in Los Angeles."

I stare at him.

"My…friend," I repeat, trying to wrap my head around what it is he's saying. The heaviness of his words, the implicated threat. It's supposed to mean something to me. I just can't figure out what. "In Los Angeles."

"Yes," Quinton says cooly, the same falsely casual tone to his voice as he nods, turning his eyes back up toward me. "A very… _fitting_ locale for him, don't you think?"

It takes a moment. Just a moment, once the words have left his lips.

Every muscle in Spike's body tenses up again, and a wave of heated jealousy, so powerful it nearly knocks me to my knees, washes over me.

And I figure it out, just a half second after Spike does. The implication hits me so hard, so fast, it nearly steals the breath from my lungs.

Angel?

 _Oh, God, they think it's Angel._

"Now perhaps you're used to idle threats and sloppy discipline, Miss Summers, but you're dealing with grownups now." He tilts his head to the side once more, narrowing his eyes slightly as he looks into mine. They flash once. "Am I making myself clear?"

I force myself to hold eye contact with him, swallowing hard against the growing dryness in my throat, and nod.

He grins then, shifting back away from me. "Wonderful." He turns back toward Giles, nodding at him. "Well then we'll let you get back to…" he trails off, smiling cooly again as he searches for the word. "...whatever it was you were discussing." Then he looks back to me again. "Miss Summers, we'll see _you_ tomorrow."

And then they're gone. The lot of them whisking the door open and shuffling back out into the night at a pace that would shock me if my head weren't already going a million different directions.

Once the door slams shut, and it's clear the three of us are alone again, it's silent for a moment. Like none of us even knows where to begin.

"So," Spike begins after a minute, drawing the word out slowly. "That's the Council of Wankers?" I turn to look at him, and he has his eyes narrowed, riveted to the door where Quinton and the others have just disappeared. He puts his hands on his hips, tilting his head to the side. "Right giggle, they are."

My legs buckle beneath me.

I drop down onto the back of Giles's sofa, the air I hadn't even realized I'd been holding in rushing out of my lungs in a whoosh. My head is spinning.

"They think it's Angel," I murmur, the words catching on my tongue, bouncing around in my head.

"I know," Giles says, his voice low.

I shake my head, focusing down on the floor in front of me.

"Slayer."

Spike this time, his voice as low as Giles's had been, just beside my ear. He's dropped down to his knees in front of me.

I turn my eyes up from the ground to meet his. They're wild, a stormy navy blue.

I fixate in on them, feeling light headed, hoping he can tell what it is I'm feeling.

Not just what I'm feeling, but _why_ I'm feeling it.

The Council thinks it's Angel I'm connected with. Not Spike.

All the things Quinton has said, all the threats, the things we're going to be facing in the next few days. And this is the one thought that sticks in my skull and won't let go.

I can't put words to the feeling flooding through my chest now, leeching down into my stomach. This weird mix. The most indescribable, bone melting relief that they don't know it's Spike, that they might never know that it's Spike.

And also a gut wrenching concern for the brunette vampire in L.A.

It isn't a mix of equal parts. Not even close, the relief in this moment far outweighing the concern. But both emotions are there, coupled with the rippling waves of worry I'm getting from Spike now, too. And still, the tiniest bit of jealousy.

He reaches his hands up, bracing them against my legs, just above the bend of my knee. Exerting just enough pressure to bring me out of my thoughts.

"You alright?" he asks, brow furrowed.

"Yeah," I say, not sure whether or not it's a lie. "I'm fine. Just…it's a lot. For one night." I reach my hands up, laying them gently on top of his, finding that I'm craving the skin to skin contact. Then I turn my eyes up to Giles.

"Did you know they were going to do this?" I ask, trying and failing to keep the accusation out of my voice. "Come here?"

He doesn't look at me when he answers. "No."

I nod, pursing my lips. Believing him, even though I'm still stinging from the knowledge of his betraying my trust. Even though all I really want to do is scream at him, tell him _I told you so_. Tell him exactly how many people's lives he's just managed to put in danger. It's still something we're going to have to talk about, deal with.

But there are bigger issues now.

"Okay," I say, sighing, shaking my head. "What do we do now?"

Spike twists his hands around, gripping mine tightly and pushing himself to his feet. The movement carries me up off the back of the sofa with him.

"Now," he says, not waiting for Giles to get a response in to my question, "I'm takin' you home."

I frown up at him, squeezing his hands gently even as I shake my head to his suggestion.

"I can't go home now," I tell him, looking down. "We...we have to figure out how we're going to get out of this."

Giles clears his throat, like he wants to say something but he's nervous to speak up. "Buffy's right, I'm afraid. We need...time to prepare."

Spike whips his head back over his shoulder, growling deep in his throat, and I look up to see him fixing my Watcher with a scathing look.

"No, _you_ need time to prepare," he snarls, his grip on my hands tightening. "Fix this bloody mess you've gotten her in."

Giles glares, his eyes flashing as he turns his body to face us. "The mess _I've_ gotten her in?"

I don't bother to interject that it's really the mess _I've_ gotten us all in.

Because this bickering, this tension. It isn't helping.

This is exactly what we can't be doing right now.

"Can we just..." I begin, sounding as tired as I suddenly feel, all the adrenaline leaving my body at once. "...figure a plan out now, and argue about who's fault it is later?"

My head is throbbing again, and I realize dimly that I still haven't eaten anything, have barely drank anything except for those couple sips of orange juice before leaving Spike's crypt before. I sway slightly, and Spike turns back to me immediately, apparently no longer caring what Giles thinks about any of this.

He lets go of my hands and wraps his arms around my waist instead, supporting my weight. My hands go immediately, instinctively, to my spot on his chest. Fighting the intense desire I have let my eyes drift closed, to lean forward and press my heavy head to his shoulder.

"You're dead on your feet, pet," he murmurs, dropping his voice down low. His brow creased with worry. "How much good do you think you're goin' to do anyone right now?"

But I'm barely hearing him, too busy sifting through the thoughts tumbling around in my brain. How we're going to avoid this review. How we're going to get the Council to leave. How I'm going to keep them away from Spike while they're here, keep them from figuring out…

I groan out loud, closing my eyes, feeling overwhelmed.

"Angel," I say, the churning starting again in my stomach. "God, I have to call Angel…"

Spike stiffens, his arms tightening around me. "Like hell you do."

And there's that gripping wave of jealousy again.

I open my eyes and look up into his face, pushing at him slightly, needing the space. "I need to warn him about the Council," I explain, sounding a little less patient than I would have liked. But this is no time for irrational jealousy.

And it _is_ irrational, I realize. I want to warn Angel, to tell him to be on the look out. I don't want anything bad to happen to him, have never wanted that.

But that's all.

Nothing more.

And whether that's simply an effect of the claim, or something else all together, it doesn't matter.

I step slightly back from Spike, remaining in the circle of his arms for support, but back far enough that I can look up into his face. I drop my hands down to rest lightly on his upper arms and search his eyes with mine.

"He needs to know if they might go after him," I say, my voice that same mix of gentle pleading and firm command.

Spike's jaw tenses, the muscle ticking visibly. But he nods.

"But Peaches can wait one sodding night," he says, cutting me off before I can say anything else. " _After_ you've eaten somethin', and slept."

And he's mimicked my tone of voice.

I frown up at him, but I know now I'm going to do what he's asked.

Extricating myself from his embrace, I step to the side so I can face Giles head on. He's looking at me with wide eyes, and I notice he's drained the rest of the scotch that had been left in his tumbler when Quinton had showed up.

"Did they say when they'd be seeing me tomorrow, exactly?"

I hadn't exactly been listening there toward the end.

Giles shakes his head, dropping down onto the bar stool he'd vacated earlier. His shoulder sare sagging, brow creased. "No, but I'd guess they'll be at the Magic Box bright and early. Probably ask me to close down for the duration of their stay, afford them the most privacy."

"Okay," I say, thinking it through in my head. "Then we'll meet here first...brighter and earlier." I pause. "I, uh...I think Spike's right." I glance at the vampire over my shoulder briefly before turning to look back at Giles. "I'm...pretty wiped."

I don't say much more. Don't need to.

I feel as uncomfortable talking about the claim as Giles looks like he does hearing me talk about it. He just nods, looking resigned.

And like he'd very much like another glass of scotch.

So I just nod, an unspoken understanding passing between us, and turn toward the front door. Spike follows immediately, I can feel him directly behind me as I reach out and place my hand on the door knob.

It's the sound of my name that stops me.

I don't turn back toward him. Just pause, hand gripping the knob, waiting to leave. Waiting for whatever it is he thinks he needs to say.

"I'm sorry," Giles says quietly, hesitantly. "About this."

He's apologizing for the Council showing up here, but not for contacting them. Not for going to them behind my back.

The muscle in my jaw clenches, straining. At first I'm not sure if the irritation is mine, or coming instead from Spike. It takes just a moment to realize that it's actually both of us.

I turn my head slightly to the side, so I can just make him out from the corner of my eye. I nod and exhale slowly, the words escaping through barely moving lips.

"You should be."

Neither of us speaks the entire way back to my house. Spike doesn't ask if he can come inside, and I don't bother to extend the invitation.

It's simply assumed.

I push the front door open and step into the foyer, peeking around to see if there's evidence that anyone else is still awake. The lamp beside the sofa in the living room is on, and so are the dim phosphorescent lights emanating from the kitchen. But that's all.

And it's quiet.

I turn back and nod toward Spike, holding the door open wider for him to step in around me.

Not that it would have mattered if anyone _had_ been awake. It wouldn't have stopped me from having him here. Not now.

Not after everything.

He follows me through the dining room and out into the kitchen, slipping casually on to one of the stools at the kitchen island and watching me as I move around the opposite side, toward the fridge. It takes me no time at all to locate the pizza box from earlier, pulling it, along with a 2-liter of diet soda, out and using my hip to nudge the fridge door closed again. I set both items down on the countertop, flipping the pizza box lid open and pulling out a particularly large piece of pepperoni.

I lean down onto my elbows, bringing the piece up to my mouth and taking a huge bite.

Spike watches me, his eyes never leaving my face.

I finish that piece and turn around, reaching into one of the cabinets behind me and pulling down two cups, filling each of them with the diet soda and placing one of them in front of Spike before practically downing my own in one long sip.

I hadn't even realized how incredibly thirsty I'd been until I've finished the first glass and started refilling a second.

"Should drink somethin' with sugar in it," he says softly, bringing my eyes back to his. He's sitting so still across from me, one hand wrapped around the glass I've placed in front of him, the other drumming a soft, steady rhythm into the formica counter top.

Wordlessly, I pick up the glass I've just finished refilling and bring it over to the sink, dumping it out. I move back to the fridge and pull the big carton of apple juice out, pouring it into the now empty glass and setting it back down on the counter in front of me.

Spike eyes it warily, frowning.

"I didn't—"

"I know," I say, cutting him off, picking the glass up and taking a long sip. I pull the glass away from my lips and press it against my cheek. "Did that one on my own."

Spike's lips curve up slightly, and he nods in my direction, picking his own glass up and bringing it to his lips. He immediately makes a face, shivering as he swallows the sweet, carbonated liquid and sets the glass back down.

"Not worth it without the Jack," he says, sputtering slightly, shuddering again and pushing it toward me.

I smile at him, shaking my head as I pick up another piece of pizza and shut the box. I eye it for a moment before I lean forward onto my elbows again, taking a small bite.

I'm not hungry anymore, but something in me is insisting I eat at least one more piece.

"Are we gonna talk about the poetry book?" I ask, taking another bite of the pizza and carefully keeping my eyes down.

I hear the subtle shifting of leather and figure Spike's leaned forward, folding his arms over countertop. I still don't look at him.

"What's there to talk about?" He asks.

I take another bite of pizza, very aware that I'm almost finished with the slice in my hand and that I won't have a prop to rely one for very much longer.

So I go for the main question that's been dancing around in my head, somewhere in my subconscious, since I first found the book earlier.

"Was it yours?"

A slow exhale, just the smallest bit of hesitation before he answers me. "It was."

"So," I say, eyeing the pizza that's now nothing more than a piece of crust in my hands as I move to the next obvious question. "You're William Pratt."

Another pause, a small hesitation. I can feel the knots threading through my stomach, anxiety that doesn't belong to me as his voice drops low and he answers me.

" _Was_."

The emphasis on the word surprises me, how vehement it sounds. It's strong enough that I feel it like a ripple down my back, more than just anxiety, but actual dread. Enough that it makes me drop the pizza crust onto the lid of the box, brings my eyes blinking back up to his.

They're very dark, completely unreadable. His expression is impassive.

I'd think that he simply finds the topic boring if I couldn't feel the growing panic flooding my system now.

Whatever it is that's causing his anxiety to rise, it has something to do with the book. The poem. With his name. Whoever William Pratt was, it's someone that Spike is very clearly trying to distance himself from.

I frown, wondering what is he's fighting so hard to hide.

"Who were you, Spike?" I ask, putting my hands down flat on the counter top and pushing up so I'm standing straight again. I tilt my head to the side, trying to read the expression on his face, in his eyes. "Who were you before?"

His eyes flash. "No one."

It isn't a deflection. It's an answer.

I'm reminded once again of what I'd thought earlier, sitting in the armchair with the heavy volume resting in my lap. How much I don't know about him, his history. Whatever pain in his past he's working so hard to keep covered up.

When Angel had been turned, he'd killed his entire family. His whole village.

I wonder now, looking at the blonde vampire across from me, if it could be something along those lines. Things he's done.

But the feeling I'm getting from him isn't guilt. It's...embarrassment. Shame.

I step around the countertop, brow furrowing deeper, moving a little closer to him. "Spike–"

"What happened with the Council?" He asks suddenly, cutting me off, changing the subject.

The whole time, his facial expression never changes.

It's the way he says it that makes me drop the whole thing. Whatever it is, now isn't the time to address it. He very, very clearly has no desire to discuss it with me. And somewhere in the back of my mind I recognize that he could _make_ me drop it, if he wanted to.

And he's managed to make his point to me without ever having to make a command, because the last thing I want to do right now is rehash just how very dangerous the Council can be. If I wanted to do that, I'd still be at Giles's.

So I nod to show that I've understood, that I'm going to let it go. For now.

There are other things we need to talk about, anyway.

I continue to move closer to him, trailing my fingers absently along the countertop until I come to a stop in front of him, a little to his right.

"They'll want to talk to you," I murmur, calling a quiet, unspoken truce between us by switching the subject entirely.

Spike twists on his seat, his knees brushing against the folds of the coat I still haven't bothered to remove as he angles himself toward me.

"How you reckon?" he asks, his voice lower, more gentle now, too, than it had been a moment ago.

I shrug noncommittally, letting my voice sound light. "They said they were gonna talk to my friends."

"Is that what we are?" Spike asks, a small smirk ghosting the corner of his lips as he tilts his head. His eyes are bright, open as they look into mine. "Friends?"

"Well," I say, voice dropping low. My body inches itself closer to him, pulled toward him as if by some unseen string. "Sort of."

"Sort of," Spike muses, turning his eyes so he's focusing on something just over my shoulder, nodding thoughtfully.

I step up between his knees.

"I'm not gonna use the M word," I tell him softly, even as his hands find their way to my hips, pulling me subtly closer to him.

His eyebrow shoots up. "The _M word_?"

I brace my hands on his chest and lean forward, resting my forehead against the cool leather covering his shoulder. I nod.

He chuckles.

And his hands slide around my hips, arms circling full around me. He tugs me upward, and I comply easily, slipping onto his lap and turning my head so my brow is against the cool exposed skin of his neck so we're both perched on top of the stool.

After a moment, I let my eyes fall closed and take a deep breath, exhaling into his skin and whispering, "There's no way this is comfortable for you."

Spike chuckles again, the sound, the warm feeling that comes along with it, reverberating through me.

Another long moment passes, silence stretching between us. As distracted as I've managed to make myself since leaving Giles, as much as I've tried to keep the weight of the Council being here at bay, there's no way around it now.

And it isn't just about Spike and I now. It's me, and Spike, and Giles. My friends. Probably my family. _And_ Angel.

This whole thing is just doing a little too much mixing of the old and new parts of my life for my liking. I lean further into him, pressing a soft, almost entirely subconscious kiss to the side of his throat.

And then I yawn, my hand flying up to stifle the noise.

"Tired?" Spike asks.

"Tired. Confused." I shift in his lap, his arms automatically banding more tightly around me. "A little bit sore."

"Worried," Spike fills in for me, his lips soft where he's turned to press them against my forehead.

I sigh, exhaling through my nose. "Worried."

Spike nods, the motion jostling me a little, before he hooks his hand beneath my knees and lowers my legs back down to the ground, sliding off the stool once he's sure my feet are flat on the floor.

"Probably best you get some kip," he suggests lightly, reaching a hand up to brush the back of his knuckle gently over the tender skin below my right eyes.

He drops his hand back down and I nod, moving slowly passed him and back into the dining room.

The same way I hadn't had to ask Spike to come inside with me, I don't have to ask Spike to stay.

He follows me up the stairs and into my bedroom, turning to let the door quietly click closed as I take off my coat and toss it over the edge of my desk chair. I don't wait for him as I move to my bed, fully clothed as I flop down on top of it, not even bothering to pull the blankets back. I watch from where I lay as Spike shrugs off his coat, tossing it on top of mine and moving toward me.

I've taken up the right side of the bed, so he crawls on top of me, flipping around and dropping down onto his back to my left.

We lay there, side by side, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment.

"Thanks," I say finally, eyes fixated on the slanting patterns of moonlight dappled across the side of my ceiling. "For staying."

Spike brings his hands up, crossing them casually behind his head, jostling the bed slightly with his movement.

"'Course," he says, then adds quickly, the hint of a smirk in his voice, "what are _friends_ for?"

I roll my eyes, shifting slightly so I'm turned on my side. I prop myself up on my elbow so I can see his face.

"Is that going to be, like, a thing now?" I ask, looking at him through slightly narrowed eyes, one eyebrow raised high.

"You know," Spike says, drawing the words out. He remains flat on his back, hands comfortably behind his head. "Mate and friend are somewhat interchangeable in England."

His eyes shift subtly toward mine, and he smirks at me.

"Yeah well, you're not _in_ England, buddy." I flop back down onto my back, the bed springs creaking a little under my movement. "This is America."

It's silent for a moment.

Then, "You make a habit of shaggin' your friends in America?"

"Spike," I groan, rolling over onto my side to face him again.

He's ready for me this time, meeting me halfway, claiming my lips in a deep, bone melting kiss. I inhale, a small, reversed gasp of surprise, and he's effectively stopped whatever it is I'd been about to say, wiping my mind completely. The minute I feel his tongue gliding along the seam of my lips, I part them for him, and I'm lost. His arm immediately goes to wrap around my waist, hauling my chest flat against his. My hand finds his hip and digs in, nails biting into the cotton of his t-shirt.

When he pulls away from and looks down into my flushed face with dark, wild eyes, I have to fight every instinct I have that's pulling me toward him, the little voice in the back of my head crying out for his touch, for me to launch myself forward and capture his mouth again.

"Call it what you like, Buffy," he says, my name sounding honeyed, seductive on his swollen lips. "You can put a nice, simple title on it if you want to. Call me whatever makes you feel better." His chest is heaving with unneeded air, still pressed hard, intimately against mine. I watch as he leans a little closer to me, pressing one final, sound kiss full on my lips. "But we're not friends, pet."

But he's wrong.

True, I hadn't really been thinking about it when I'd called him that downstairs. My friend. I'd just lumped him in with the rest of the people in my life, those the Council would consider interesting or important enough to talk to about me.

And I don't know when it happened. Somewhere in the middle of all this mess, all the junk that's been going on since this fall. Everything falling apart with Riley, Mom getting sick, the dreams. Spike had been there. He'd let me talk, sat and listened, even when we didn't know what was happening. Long before we figured out there was something so, so much bigger going on.

And even after we had, he'd been the one to come here. Listen again. Call me out on everything, all the weight I'd been carrying on my shoulders. That night in my living room, the night before Mom's surgery. Even when I hadn't wanted to, when I'd tried to shut him out, he hadn't let me.

And the point he's just tried to make is a good one, too.

Calling Spike my friend, _just_ my friend, isn't fair. Isn't true. Our bodies belong to each other. Mine calls out to him, sings for him, in a way that's far from friendly.

In a way it never has for anyone else.

And that was true before, too. That's a bond that started forming well before I'd marked him as mine. And maybe that has something to do with how powerful it feels now, how much stronger each element of the connection is now that it's been completed.

Maybe it needed to be both, the physical pull and the push toward camaraderie. The way I feel so evenly matched to Spike, his inner workings, the impulses that drive him. So much like mine.

Maybe that's why it _is_ Spike, and not Angel.

Because it built itself off of something that was already there.

So in a sense he's right, and in another he's wrong. I'd just never really stopped to consider it before, too overwhelmed, too confused, just...too busy trying to come to terms with everything else that's been going on.

"You're right," I whisper my agreement, blinking up at him. "We're not just friends."

Spike leans away from me slightly, looking more than a little surprised by my response. The arm that's still wrapped around my waist loosens its hold, allowing him room to slide back, getting a better view of my eyes.

"We're not just friends," he says softly, repeating the phrase, and I can hear it in his voice. The smallest hint of awe coloring the words.

It's such a simple thing. So much smaller, easier to understand. So much less overwhelming than the word _mate_. Less animalistic.

But I feel like it carries a weight with it _because_ of that, not in spite of it.

Because the words are mine. They've come from me, the label is one I've given to us, not just what some ritualistic claim dictates we should be.

Like this, lying beside Spike in my bed, his arms wrapped around me, is something that might be happening whether I'd taken that blood from Dracula's vein or not.

Like I could love him all on my own.

And it makes everything else that's going on with Quinton Travers and the Council that much more terrifying.

It's the last thought I have before succumbing to the sleep that's dragging me down, pulling at my already heavy eyelids until I let them flutter shut.

I dream of fire. Hundreds and hundreds of dusty books going up in flames, fanning out into a raging circle shaped inferno.

And me, standing alone at the center of it.


	28. Chapter 27

I lie awake for a long time, having woken up about half way through the night and been unable to fall back asleep. Resting on my back, hands folded over my waist, watching the patterns of light shift and change as the night progressed, the moon arcing through the sky.

It's anxiety, I know. Nervousness and fear and not knowing how exactly it is we're going to make it through this review without anyone wising up to the truth of our situation, while also "following their recommendations" and finding a way to keep Angel out of all this, too.

I don't even know for sure if Quinton's telling the truth about having information that can help us. If I even want it if he is. Whether whatever information he does have is too little, too late.

My thoughts drift to an off handed comment he'd made earlier, about his resources, the information he'd claimed to have.

"Some of it is clearly vital. The rest merely extremely disturbing."

I wonder what he means by that. Because the Council's version of what they dean disturbing and mine are probably majorly different.

Along with the constant, gut twisting anxiousness I also just feel angry. Angry at Giles for going behind my back. Angry at Quinton Travers for showing up here. Angry at myself for inadvertently getting so many people I care about into this mess in the first place.

Because that's where the finger points, isn't it? To me.

Always me.

I sigh, letting the air softly out through my lips and shift slightly, rolling over onto my right side, tucking my arm up beneath my head.

Spike's still sleeping. The same position he'd slept in the last time he'd been here, one hand propped beneath his head and the other resting over his chest. Where his heart is.

He'd be upset if he knew all the places my head was going right now. If he knew he deeply I was beginning to blame myself for all this.

I shift a little closer to him, resting my cheek flat against my arm, studying his face. I watch as his eyes shift back and forth impossibly fast beneath pale eyelids, lashes fluttering slightly. Dreaming about something.

Or maybe feeling my panic.

A fresh wave of which strikes me suddenly, my stomach dropping out as I think again about what today's going to have in store for us. For me.

And as angry as I am at Giles, I feel the sudden urge to get up and go see him again. Talk through the mess of thoughts tumbling around in my brain, make some sort of sense, some sort of plan.

Something.

I roll back over, glancing at the clock on my nightstand with wide open eyes.

4:58 a.m.

Has there been a morning where I've slept past 5:00 in the past few weeks?

Still, I guess its better than oversleeping. I'd planned to meet Giles bright and early this morning. I wonder dimly if he'll think 5:30 is a little too much with the early, and not enough with the bright.

Not that I care if I wake him up.

"How long you been up?"

I twist back around, propping myself awkwardly up on my elbows and see Spike eyeing me warily, one eye popped open. His face is titled slightly, turned down closer to the pillow beneath him.

"Not long," I lie, watching as he lets his eye drift shut again and nods lazily, nuzzling deeper into the pillow. I feel the corners of my lips turn up watching him, thick lashes dark against the cream of his cheeks. "Go back to sleep."

Things grow very quiet, very still between us again, and for a moment I think he's done what I've asked.

Then he grimaces slightly, shaking his head.

"Should try and relax a little, pet," he murmurs, rolling over flat onto his back, stretching both arms up above his head. "Gonna give us an ulcer, all that worryin'."

I don't ask him if he means "us" in that weird, colloquial British sense of the word that I've used both he and Giles use before, or if he means us as in us. The two of us.

Either way.

"You should stay here," I say softly, giving voice to the thought I've been having on and off, periodically, since first laying eyes on Travers last night.

Both of Spike's eyes shoot open. He immediately sits up, propping himself back on his elbows and twisting his head around to look into my face.

We're practically mirror images.

The azure eyes that were bleary with sleep a moment ago are wide now, and wild. Searching mine, one eyebrow raised in disbelief.

And it's coming at me from all sides, the indignation. The fierce, swelling push of protective desire vibrating from him.

His voice is low, verging on dangerous when he says, "No sodding way in hell am I doin' that."

I'm not sure how it is I can tell. If it's gut instinct, the connection, or something much simpler. But I recognize what is is he thinks I'm saying and am already shaking my head before he's even finished speaking.

"No," I say simply, waiting for the swelling surge of emotion to quiet before continuing. "I don't…I mean stay here."

I see understanding steel over his features, the hard lines around his lips softening, blinking at me. He shifts a tiny ways back from me, both eyebrows high now.

"You mean…"

I nod. "Yeah." Then, quickly, "I mean, not…just until after the Council leaves. I'd feel better if you were here."

And I'm hoping he's understood me. I'm not asking him to move in, I'm asking him just to…camp out here. Until Travers and his goons have hopped back on a plane and taken themselves far, far away. Back across the pond where they belong.

It's not like I'm proposing marriage.

I watch the corner of his mouth curve up into a half smirk.

"And you don't think me…" He tilts his head to the side. "Bein' here would cause some eyebrows to raise?"

This makes me pause.

Frowning, I consider what he's said. It's a good point, one I'd purposefully not spent too much time thinking about when I'd decided to bring it up.

It's selfish. I selfishly want him here, near me. Somewhere I know those Watchers will have to go through me if they want even half a chance at getting to him.

Of course, that only matters if I fail. Only becomes an issue if I let something slip.

And in the mean time, if anyone were to find out that he'd been staying here…well, yeah, I guess that'd look a little on the suspicious side.

Still, the logical side of my brain is battling the strong, primitive urge I feel to protect the vampire beside me. It's wild, indescribable. As strong a notion as protecting myself.

"Well…" I begin slowly, dropping my eyes down to my lap. "It'd only be for a few days. And only at night, you know, when I'm here and…" The rest of the words tumble out in a rush, my argument falling apart, shoulders sagging. "No, I know you're right. Definitely eyebrow raise worthy." I drop back down flat on the mattress, letting my head hit the pillows. I shift my eyes up to him, frowning. "Since when did you become logic vamp?"

Spike smirks at me, rolling over onto his side. He's still propped up on his elbow, but now he's leaning slightly down over me, eyes bright.

"Didn't," he says, and the smirk softens a little as his eyes scan my face. Like he's realizing something, reading something written there that only he can see. "Just don't feel like makin' things harder for you, 's all."

And he reaches up, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The pad of his thumb grazing my jaw lightly, sending little sparks across my skin.

I blink up at him, mesmerized. My mind drawing a big blank where I know my next words should have been.

I'm just about to lean up, to lift my head up off the pillows and kiss him when he suddenly shifts back. Spike inhales deeply, dropping his hand away from me and bracing it on the curve of the mattress beside my hip, launching himself up and out of the bed.

Landing on his bare feet, whirling back around to face me, as agile and silent as a cat.

I stare at him, unsure of exactly what's happened. He doesn't feel angry. Or jealous. Or anxious. None of the negative emotions I'd gotten from him yesterday are there, at least not strong enough for me to be feeling them.

I can't feel one trace, not one, of an emotion that would explain him getting up and out of bed so abruptly.

Everything just…is. It's calm.

I frown, pushing myself back into a sitting position.

"C'mon, Slayer," Spike says breezily, picking up his boots from where he'd left them the night before, dropping down onto the corner of the bed to pull them back on. "Should beat it before your mum and the bit wake up."

Oh.

I frown deeper, swinging my legs over the side of the mattress, slowly stretching my arms up over my head.

"Why?" I ask, turning my attention over toward my open closet doors, mentally rifling through the clothes there for whatever it is I should wear today.

Spike finishes with the boots and stands back, tossing a semi-amused, eyebrow raised glance at me over his shoulder as he moves back to my desk chair, and his duster.

"Thought we just covered this."

Don't feel like makin' things more difficult for you.

He's including my mom and my sister in the "people who aren't supposed to know about us" list.

I push myself up to my feet, crossing to my closet. I can feel Spike's eyes on me as I yank out a plain black, slightly flawy tank and a pair of silky maroon drawstring pants.

I fold them both over the top of my arm and turns back toward him, and casually, very casually, say "Dawn already knows."

Spike nods, adjusting the sleeves of the leather coat and pursing his lips thoughtfully. His eyes burn into mine, belying the equally casual way he murmurs, "That right?"

I know Spike already knows I've told Dawn. That he'd been standing outside that night when I'd first told her the whole story. At the very least, he knows I've mentioned certain things to her. About him. About us.

But we haven't talked about it before.

And it matters. It matters to him that I've told my little sister about us. It matters that I've admitted to out loud to him now that I've told her.

It means something.

I nod, folding my arms across my waist. "Yeah."

A rush of warmth flows between us, little electric tingles starting in my stomach, working their way through the tense knots of anxiety and loosening them as they go.

Spike turns away from me, but not before I catch the small smile playing across his lips.

"Still," he says quickly, moving toward my bedroom door. "We're s'posed to meet the Watcher before this whole mess starts, yeah?"

I blink at him, automatically moving forward, too. "We?"

Spike stops, hand on my door knob. His hand large, perfect alabaster white against the brass of the knob. I watch him shrug slightly, but when he speaks, his voice has lost the false casual tone it had held a moment ago.

"Figure it's sort of a package deal."

He pulls the door open, stepping out into the hall. I follow until I'm standing in the center of the doorway, brow furrowed, still feeling a little puzzled by the vibrations coming from his skin. I still can't place them.

I open my mouth to say something, and freeze when he turns back around.

Because the way he's looking at me now has my mouth going dry, leaving me speechless. With no want, or need, to argue, to disagree with him.

I clear my throat, shaking my head to clear it, loosen my tongue.

"Okay," I say. "Let me just…" I gesture absently with the clothes slung over my arm toward the open bathroom door a little ways down the hall.

He nods, understanding. "I'll be downstairs."

I step hurriedly into the bathroom, closing the door and locking it, turning around to press my back into the cool wood.

Wondering what in the hell exactly just happened, and why I'm suddenly so flustered and flushed. Shoving those thoughts aside for another day, I turn my attention toward getting ready, only pausing for a brief moment to inspect the fresh claim mark on the side of my throat.

It's already healed, faded, nearly scarred over completely.

In a matter of hours. Leaving just the faded outline of two puncture wounds and trails of white around the upper and lower edges.

I wonder what that means.

By the time we reach Giles's apartment, he's already up, dressed and ready, and waiting for us.

Or, rather, for me.

It's no secret he isn't exactly thrilled to see Spike with me. But to his credit, he only mentions it a couple times.

Giles has a massive pot of strong black coffee brewing away in the corner of the kitchen, making the entire living room smell incredible. He offers me some, and I accept, a little surprised when he returns from the kitchen carrying two steaming mugs instead of just the one.

He wordlessly hands the one on the right to Spike, and the one on the left to me, before turning his back and moving away from us.

I frown, eyebrow raised as I turn back to look at the mug in Spike's hand. Our eyes meet, and he mouths the word "Blood" to me.

I frown deeper, turning back toward my Watcher. He isn't looking in my direction, eyes turned down, focused on the stack of books and the notepad he's settled on the coffee table in front of his sofa.

It's the closest thing Spike can expect to an apology from the older man.

So I turn back toward him, finding his bemused indigo eyes with mine, and I nod.

We settle ourselves down in the living room. Me on the floor in front of the coffee table, Giles across from me on the sofa, Spike switching repeatedly between the overstuffed chair in the corner and pacing around like a caged tiger the open space behind me.

"It's a power play," Giles says, taking off his glasses and tossing them on the pile of books in front of him. "That's what it is. It's about who has the power."

It isn't hard for me to guess who in our little scenario has the power. I'm not feeling overly powerful myself right now. And Giles, for everything he has done, I'm certain he wasn't anticipating the arrival of the Council, either.

He's as frustrated about that part of the equation as we are.

"I'm guessing they do?" I say, not really asking, folding my legs beneath me and tapping absently on the hollow rim of my coffee mug. "Big power outage in Buffy county?"

Giles leans back into the sofa, reaching up and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I should have set you loose on them," he murmurs, shaking his head. "That's what I should have done."

"Giles," I say, sighing, lifting my mug and placing it on the table in front of me. "That Travers guy is like…sixty. I can't hit him." I pause for a moment, thinking about it, turning over my shoulder to look at Spike. "Can I?"

He pauses in his pacing just long enough to send me a little wink.

I turn back toward Giles.

Hitting Quinton Travers.

The notion brings a big smile to my lips, which quickly falls when I think about exactly what might happen if I took my frustrations out on the crotchety old man the way I'm envisioning.

Nowhere near the vicinity of good.

Giles apparently comes to the same conclusion around the same time I do.

"I suppose not." And then he leans forward suddenly, bracing his arms on the tops of his legs and looking at me seriously. "Well, I could." He pauses, considering it, then leans back slightly.

"I think I will."

Behind me, Spike scoffs.

"Right," he drawls, and I can hear the wicked smirk in his voice. "Let Giles have a go. That'll show 'em."

Giles turns cool, unblinking eyes on the bleached vampire, picking his glasses back up and putting them on.

"Remind me one more time," he says slowly, tilting his head a little to the side. "What exactly it is you're doing here?"

A rush of frustration rockets through my chest, and I think it's both mine and Spike's.

I roll my eyes.

Things have been tense between the two all morning, even with the whole blood peace offering.

I clear my throat pointedly, bringing the Watcher's attention back to me.

"Spike's just involved in this as I am, Giles," I tell him calmly, widening my eyes a little.

Like I'm telling a child to behave.

"Yes," he says dismissively, leaning down to make a note of something on the scratch paper in front of him, "thank you for that unfortunate reminder."

Spike makes a little noise, something between a growl and a chuckle, and moves around me. I watch his back as he turns the corner and listen for his footsteps as they disappear down the hall. A moment later, a door slams.

I look back at Giles, narrowing my eyes.

"Okay, that?" I shrug, shaking my head. "Not helping."

Giles sighs, dropping the pen onto the yellow notepad with a smacking sound and looking up at me.

"I'm sorry, Buffy," he says, and honestly, he kind of sounds like he is. "Truly I am. But this…that…" He points a hard finger toward the concealed mark on my neck. "And with Spike, of all…" He trails off, shaking his head, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back into the sofa cushion. And suddenly, he looks very tired.

"You'll forgive me if this whole thing takes me a bit of getting used to."

I furrow my brow, feeling annoyed, irritation burning hot in my cheeks. "You didn't seem quite this wigged before—"

"Before being the operative word there," Giles says quickly, tiredly, cutting me off.

I watch him, my eyes taking in his face, my expression softening.

This whole thing must be impossible for him. To understand, to come to grips with. He'd hated my being with Angel and again, that had been so much…simpler than this. That always had it's own little built in expiration date.

This, with Spike…it doesn't. Forever is a big, big word. And this is Spike. The same vampire that came to Sunnydale to kill me, to add a third Slayer to his belt. Who's made my life, and the lives of those I love, difficult on countless occasions. Who's never, in all honesty, given Giles any reason to trust him.

And now he's being forced to trust him. With me.

So even though I'm still angry, and even though I know what he's done is wrong, and that he's not being fair to Spike, and that he should trust me more than he obviously is…

I know the only way we're all going to make it through this review is if we're on the same side.

"Giles, look…" I begin, lowering my voice a little, getting to my feet. I think about exactly what is I want to say.

"I know you aren't exactly Mr. Council anymore…" I step around the coffee table, dropping down onto the sofa beside him. "But you obviously went to them, and you went to them behind my back." I sigh. "You trusted them more than me."

"Buffy," he starts to say, but I shake my head, holding his gaze with mine.

"Let me finish," I say firmly.

If I don't say this now, I won't.

Giles nods slowly. I take a deep breath, casting a brief glance over in the direction Spike's just disappeared to. I haven't heard the door open again, or any footsteps, but I've seen first hand how quiet he can be when he wants to.

I turn back to Giles, lowering my voice just a little further.

"Spike and I…we're…we're sort of a package deal now." My lips twitch as I use his words from earlier. "That isn't going to change. It can't. And I…we have to be able to trust you." I pause for a moment, looking at the man in front of me. The man who risked everything, who got fired from a job he loved for loving me more. And I have to hope, as I say the words, that that same man from nearly two years ago is the one looking back at me now. "So I need to know. Are you with us on this?"

There's a very long moment that passes between us. My words hanging in the air, heavy and veiled and way more meaningful than even I think I intended them to be.

But I'd meant every word.

Spike and I, whatever we are, whatever else is going on…we're together. Two halves of one whole.

And everyone else will have to make a choice.

Finally, after what feels like the longest probably only thirty seconds of my entire life, Giles sighs. Nods. A small, very tired small curving just one side of his mouth as he looks at me.

"I…am."

From in the opposite corner of the apartment, a door creaks open. I smile at Giles as heavy, booted footsteps echo back to us from down the hallway, and Spike appears, leaning his shoulder onto the little piece of wall beside the kitchen doorway.

"Right then," he says airily, folding his arms over his chest. "So what do you think it means for us?" His eyes are fixed on Giles. "The fact that these blighters seem to think it's Captain Forehead in the mix, and not me?"

Giles thinks a moment, turning his eyes back down toward his notepad and nodding. "Well, it's certainly bought us some time."

I chew down on the swell of my bottom lip, glad that it was Spike who'd brought Angel up first, and not me.

Even though I hadn't missed the bitter edge to his voice, or the soft swell of envy burning a little in the back of my throat.

"And for him?" I ask, my voice soft.

"If you'll feel better after speaking with him, Buffy, by all means." Giles takes a quick glance at his watch, then stands up, leaning forward to gather a few books in his hands. "But I don't think that's where our energies are best spent." He crosses to his book shelf and begins idly setting the books back where they belong. "I sincerely doubt the Council will waste their time on him, especially if it appears that you're cooperating—"

"The same way you sincerely doubted the Council would show up here?" I ask, my voice a little harder now, cutting him off. It's a mimicry of something he'd said to me earlier, when we'd first arrived.

Giles freezes mid shelving, turns to glance slowly back at me over his shoulder.

he clears his throat, mumbling something that sounds a little like "good point."

I lean back into the sofa cushion, turning my eyes away from Giles and back over toward Spike. And as I look at him, any and all concerns I have over Angel seem to fade into the background.

The knots that had skeddadled earlier, in the wake of that moment between us in my doorway, seem to come crawling back with a vengeance.

I shake my head, the words escaping my lips on a whisper. "How are we going to get through this review?"

The words I haven't spoken hang heavily implicated in the air around us.

Without somebody getting hurt.

Spike's eyes narrow, flashing, and he pushes himself off the wall. Angling his body toward Giles, he puts both hands on his hips.

"Question."

"Yes?" Giles prompts, one hand on his hip, the other resting firmly against the book case.

"What would happen if we just, ya know…told 'em." He looks back at me, his eyes bight, stormy. "About us. Now that they're here, sort of like the worst has already happened, yeah?" He steps closer to the sofa, lowering his voice a little as he does. "If they knew where things stood with us, there'd be no need for this…review." He turns his head back toward Giles. "Right?"

I'm staring at him, horrified.

Speechless.

How could he possibly think that'd be a good idea? Just…telling them? Giving away our entire hand, risking everything on the off chance them knowing the connection's complete will make them give up and go home?

Maybe I should have told him exactly what happened with the Council before.

"Not exactly," Giles is saying, pushing away from the bookcase and moving to the center of the room. "If we want whatever information it is they have, they're no doubt going to have some kind of hoop to jump through."

Now I'm looking at him, horrified.

Information? In no way, shape or form is this about getting the information they have. IT's about playing their stupid game just long enough to keep them in the dark, and then getting them to leave.

Has everyone in this room gone insan-o except for me?

"Great," Spike says breezily, like it really is that. "Then we can take 'em on together."

I shove myself up to my feet, hands curling into fists. "No."

Both pairs of blue eyes turn toward me.

Spike frowns, tilting his head to the side and taking a step toward me.

"Buffy," he says softly, but I shake my head, eyes flashing dangerously as I look at him.

"I said no."

He seems undaunted, the tiniest hint of frustration rolling off him, coloring his voice as he turns his body fully to face mine. "But if we told 'em, pet—"

"Why?" I shout, throwing my hands up in the air. "So they can hold even more potentially vital information hostage?" My voice starts to pitch higher, more frantic, with each new thought. "Make me jump through even more hoops? Come up with harder tests? Threaten you instead of Angel?"

And when the tears flood my eyes, I don't which of us is more surprised by them. Stinging, hot. Completely out of nowhere.

It's enough to stun me, to make me snap my mouth shut again.

And Spike's suddenly right in front of me.

"Okay," he says quickly, urgently, reaching down to fold my shaking hand into his larger one. He nods once, eyes steadily searching mine. He must see something in them, because his voice softens even more. "Okay."

Spike squeezes my hand one more time, very gently, and then lets go.

To our left, Giles clears his throat.

"So, coming forward is out of the question, then?"

I shoot him a scathing look, eyes blazing even as I reach up and furiously wipe away the single tear that managed to escape before I could catch it.

Giles nods.

"I suppose it's good news that you've held off on telling anyone else about the two of you." He glances down, putting both hands in his pockets, letting his sweater billow out over his wrists. "We won't have to worry about anyone…giving you away, so to speak. Spike, you'll have to go back to behaving like…" His eyebrows go up, inclining his head to the side as he considers his words. "Well, like yourself."

"Meaning?" Spike asks, a new, hard edge to his voice.

I fold my arms over my chest, chewing the inside of my cheek thoughtfully before I answer. "Like you hate me."

I glance up toward him, eyeing him through my lashes. His lips are pursed, cheeks hollowed, but he's nodding like he understands.

"For lack of a better phrase, yes."

I turn back toward Giles, who's looking back and forth between the two of us thoughtfully. "That will help. And I suppose they'll make the rest of it as difficult as they want to." His eyes lock once more with mine. "The physical stuff could be a bit of a challenge."

But I shake my head.

"That's not what I'm worried about."

Physical stuff is easy.

"It's the other stuff. Getting inside my head, examining decisions I've made…"

Spike's cool hands reach for me, long fingers wrapping firmly around my upper arms. The relief he offers me is instant, pleasant and comfortingly cold. Like icy-hot, almost, seeping into my tense muscles and melting down to my fingertips.

I sigh, a small, shuddering sound, and force myself to meet his gaze.

"Calm down, luv," he murmurs, so low I'm wondering if maybe his words are for my ears only. His thumbs press a little firmer into my skin, and I inhale, the fresh scent of cigarette smoke and mint. He must have gone to the bathroom to smoke. "Goin' into this all panicked like won't be doin' any of us any favors."

I know he's right. It's just so much easier said than done.

"Spike's right, Buffy," Giles says, echoing my thoughts. It looks like it nearly pains him to say the words out loud, but he recovers quickly. "The Council is currently under the impression that the connection hasn't been completed, and that, if it were to be, it would be with a vampire hundreds of miles from here." He nods thoughtfully, pulling his hands out of his pockets and crossing his arms loosely in front of his chest. "Let them believe that, act like you believe it yourself."

"How?" I ask, my voice quiet. Tired.

And the day hasn't really even started yet.

Spike's hands slide down from my upper arms, trailing down, feather light, until they come to rest at my hands. Entwining our fingers, I can feel his eyes, steady on our enjoined hands.

I get a wave of that same stillness I had earlier, in my bedroom. The weird almost nothing, the simple calm.

And I feel like I really hear what Giles is saying when he speaks next, like there's no haze of anxiety blocking me from understanding.

"The only way to get through this without giving the reality of your situation away," he says seriously, eyes locked with mine, "is to go into it like you have nothing to hide."

He makes it sound easy. So simple. When everything I have to hide is standing right in front of me, holding my hands in his like the most precious gems in the world.

And I hear the subtext in his words, too. The part that sounds easy but isn't at all.

While the Council is here, I'm going to have to stay away from Spike. Can't risk what might happen if anyone were to see us together.

Especially being so openly…connected. Affectionate.

Like I have nothing to hide.

I just nod.

"I guess I should be getting ready," I mumble. I start to reluctantly pull my hands out of Spike's grasp, but he stops me. I frown, looking up into his face, and we both realize it at the same time. That this is probably the last instance where we can touch each other this way until after all of this is over.

Spike drops my hand and reaches for me, hooking his index finger below my chin and tilting my head up toward his.

And then he kisses me.

It's so much like the kiss I'd given him all those mornings ago in my kitchen. Short, soft, but complete. Full. His lips slightly parted, pressed to mine, just enough for me to taste the flavor of smoke on my tongue and then it's over.

"Gonna be fine, luv," he whispers, dropping his hand away from my chin.

And I step backwards, away from him, watching as he gives the curtest nod to Giles before he turns and heads for the front door. Pulling his duster up for cover against the rising sun, he yanks the door open and darts out into the cool early morning air.

My lips are still tingling when I turn back toward Giles, who has a twisted, almost pained expression on his face.

One I very clearly recognize from the wicca induced make out session from a year ago.

I fight the urge to smile.

"So," I say lightly, reaching down to pick up the jacket I'd discarded when we'd first arrived and laying it casually over my arm. "How do you think they'll start?"

They start with the interviews.

As soon as they arrive at the Magic Box, (not nearly as bright and early as Giles had predicted but actually closer to noon, giving me a solid four hours to wallow in my stomach clenching panic) Quinton begins issuing rapid fire instructions to the other Watchers he's brought with him. He explains that while he intends to stay and "tour" the shop, a sentence that makes the color drain from Giles's face, the others are to take their questionnaires and begin the interviewing process.

He sends one of the men to interview Anya and Xander, another to interview Tara and Willow, and the woman, who's name apparently is Lydia, to interview Spike.

Of course.

She probably volunteered for it, especially after finding out that Spike, for all intents and purposes, is fangless. I try hard throughout the morning not to let it bother me. Not to think about it. But I can't help myself. I'm horribly distracted, rushing swirls of jealousy so strong in my stomach that they almost block out everything else.

Almost.

That is, until the interviews end and the Watchers file back into the Magic Box, and Quinton decides to move on to the physical stuff.

And absolutely all hell breaks loose.

Japanse? Giles never told me anything about having to know Japanese.

"I think she broke my rib," one of men, I think his name is Philip?, groans. He's on the floor at my feet, clutching his side.

And the axe I was supposed to use to defend the dummy is buried in said dummy's chest.

Oops.

"I didn't mean to," I murmur pitifully, looking down at him with an apologetic expression.

Quinton clears his throat, and my eyes shoot back up to him. He's scribbling furiously on the clipboard in front of him, eyeing me periodically as he does.

I swallow, my hands starting to shake.

"Um, you know, I can do better," I say, pulling the blindfold completely off my face, running a hand through my hair. "I can show you something else, some of the…new moves Giles has been working with me on." I snap my fingers, remembering that impossible move that Spike had helped me with earlier in the week. The one I'd finally learned to block. "There's this spinning kick thing that I've gotten really good at."

Quinton finishes whatever it is he's writing, punctuating the sentence with a hard flourish before turning cool eyes back on me.

I immediately step back again.

"No, that's alright." He glances over to Giles. "I don't think we need to see any more physical tests for a while." Then back to me again, a slow, cold smile curving his lips as he nods his head. "We can move on to the real review. Look into some of your strategies, plans for dealing with the…situation you've found yourself in." He frowns at me, his eyes turning up toward my forehead. His brow furrows like he's actively trying to read my mind. "Figure out what's going on in that head."

The way he says it has a sharp chill inching its way down my back.

"Good," I say, my voice high, as fake as the smile I try to plaster onto my face. "Head stuff."

Quinton just nods, looking back down at his notes once more.

"We start at seven tomorrow night. Give you time to, uh…" He casts another long, disparaging glance in Giles's direction. "Well, however you prepare."

I wait until after they're gone to throw up. Nothing really comes out. I haven't eaten much of anything today, or anything really. Not since the pizza last night.

I lean into the brick wall beside the trash can, pressing my forehead flush into the cool, rough texture and glancing sideways at Giles.

"So," I mumble, watching him as he approaches me, handing me a glass of water and a towel. "On a scale of one to…complete and utter disaster," I take a sip of the water. "How do you think it's going?"

He takes the towel and dabs lightly over my forehead, letting me take it from him once I've pushed myself upright again.

"You did just fine, Buffy," he assures me, but he isn't smiling. "And from what I hear, the interviews all went…fine."

The muscles in my stomach tense up again.

"Fine?" I ask, hearing my voice go high again. "Fine isn't good, Giles. Fine is…fine is not fine."

"Please, calm down. It had nothing to do with Spike."

My shoulders immediately relax.

"What did he mean?" I ask after a minute, finishing the water and handing the glass and the towel back to Giles, stepping around him to reach for my coat. "That the 'real review' is tomorrow?"

We move slowly across the training room floor, side by side, stopping once we reach the back entrance.

Giles turns toward me, shrugging slightly, watching me slip the coat on over my still sweat-slick arms.

"I suppose…the portion of the review that you've been concerned about." My muscles tense up again, and he quickly adds, "I'm sure everything will be just fine."

He reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder, his fingers curling around the padding of my coat gently. His eyes are warm when he looks into mine. "You did well tonight."

And it's a lie. Both of us know I didn't perform well tonight, too worried, too distracted by everything else. Trying so hard not to look like I'm hiding anything that I ended up looking completely incompetent in the process.

It's a lose lose situation, and we both know it.

So it's a lie. But I appreciate it.

"You're a terrible liar," I grumble, but I try and smile at him. He smiles back, and I let him squeeze me once on the shoulder before I turn away from him, stepping out the back door and pulling it gently closed behind me.

I feel Spike immediately.

Whipping my head up I spot him just as quickly, half standing in shadow a little ways down the alley and to my right. A long curl of smoke obscuring half his face from my view, his eye and cheekbone and jaw looking hard in the shadows.

And it's all so much like the night I saw him for the first time that for a moment, just a moment, I nearly forget everything that's happened between us over the last few months.

My body reacts to him, anyway.

"Dunno, pet," he drawls, lifting the cigarette to his lips and taking a drag, stubbing it out on the brick wall beside him as he exhales luxuriously through slightly parted lips. "Looked pretty good from where I was standin'."

The words don't surprise me. I'd felt him earlier, too. Tingles down my spine, and the intense pull, there just on the edges of my consciousness. To hear this, that he'd probably been watching me through one of the many windows, doesn't surprise me.

Even though part of me had hoped I was wrong.

I watch, standing very still, as Spike steps away from the alley wall, coming out of the shadows and fully into the light.

And again, the images flashing in my inner eye, the sense memory, has my body reacting to him in a different way than even the connection between us can manifest.

Automatic. Instinctual.

And there's relief, too. Not just the oh, thank God, he seems to be okay variety, either. This is quieter than that. Like just being this close to him after a day spent apart makes everything else not matter as much.

It's funny. It hasn't even been that long since I've seen him. Maybe 12 hours, if that. But it feels like its been days.

"You shouldn't be here," I say sternly, but my feet are already carrying me across the pavement, down the alleyway towards him. "What if someone saw you?"

Spike hooks his thumbs through his belt loops, raising a scarred brow at me.

"Saw me…what, exactly?" He tilts his head to the side, a smirk quirking his lips. "Watchin' the Slayer make a fool of herself?"

I frown at him, not stopping once I reach where he is, but waiting for him to turn and fall into step beside me.

"You just said it looked pretty good," I remind him, deciding not to scold him for having been here when Quinton and the others were. Not yet.

I want to enjoy the quiet moment between us right now.

"No," Spike says, drawing the word out, falling in beside me like I knew he would. "Said you looked pretty good." Our eyes shift towards one another's at the same time. "It was a bloody mess."

He's not telling me anything I don't already know. As if I wasn't already worried about it enough already, which I'm sure he knows, now my cheeks are flaming hot with embarrassment.

I turn away from him, focusing out in front of me. I shake my head.

"It's not funny," I admonish, pulling my bottom lip into my mouth, biting down on it. "I'm this close to ruining everything."

I hold my hand out in front of me, pinching my thumb and index finger together in the air, hardly any space between them at all, for emphasis.

Beside me, Spike chuckles.

The sound is rumbling and low, reverberating in the unseasonably cool air around us.

"No," he says, drawing the word out again, reaching up and batting my hand back down. It falls to my side with an audible smack, the skin electrified where his bare hands have grazed mine. "You're not. Giles told you to go in like you have nothin' to hide, yeah?" I glance back toward him and he shrugs, still smirking at me. "Sure looked like it in there."

He's making fun of me. He is, and I know it, but it's so obviously good natured and gentle and…sweet. And I know why he's doing it. He's teasing me, but he's also trying to make me feel better.

So when I feel my own lips wanting to turn up into a smile, I let them.

"Should've sparred with you," I murmur. I kick at a loose piece of gravel and tilt my head back, looking at the sky. "I can always kick your ass."

Spike scoffs loudly, brining my head down, my eyes back toward his. He has a scowl on his face, but it isn't real.

His eyes are glittering at me in the darkness.

"Because I let you," he says purposefully.

I roll my eyes, shaking my head. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

The tips of his fingers graze mine, and I don't know if it's on purpose or not, but our eyes lock again. And I want so much, so badly, to just let my fingers interlock with his.

But he pulls his hand back quickly, shoving it down into his pocket and I cross my arms over my chest, gripping my arms tightly through my coat.

We walk along in silence for a little while.

Then, the timbre of his voice very light, casual, "My interview went bloody perfect today. I was brilliant." He leans forward slightly to catch my eye. "Thanks for askin'."

I'd actually sort of forgotten about the interview for a little while. The thing that had occupied my thoughts all afternoon, and as soon as I set foot anywhere near Spike, all the worry and anxiety had dissipated.

"Yeah?" I ask, feeling the corners of my lips curving up again. I glance at him, aware of the glimmer in my own eyes as I do. "Acted like you hate me and everything?"

He grins back at me.

"I did at that." And I watch as the smile falls slightly, and he shudders. The same way he'd shuddered in my kitchen last night after drinking the diet soda. My lips twitch again.

"What?" I ask.

Spike looks over at me, and makes a face.

"That Watcher bird is a little off, I think. Got the feelin' she wanted to eat me for breakfast."

It's there again, the jealousy from before. From today, from last night. Primal and strong, grippingly possessive, and it hits me square in the chest.

But I keep my voice casual when I say, "That's weird."

Not that it matters what I say, how casual I sound, how light and airy my voice is.

because he's felt it all. He had to have.

It only takes a second for those suspicions to be confirmed.

"Oooo," Spike practically crows, leaning in a little closer to me so his lips are just beside my ear. "Do I detect a touch of jealousy, pet?"

I open my mouth to give some super clever rebuttal, maybe mention all the times I've felt his jealousy over Angel the past couple days.

But when I turn to say it, and I look at him, and I see the expression on his face…any mention of the brunette vampire crumbles on my lips.

And I find myself smiling at him instead, enjoying the light heartedness of the moment, the pure, simple pleasure I feel emanating from his skin into mine.

"You're enjoying this way too much," I say instead, shaking my head slowly.

Spike just chuckles again, leaning in toward me and nudging me slightly with his shoulder.

"Got you to give me a grin, didn't I?"

He tilts his head to the side when he asks, blue eyes bright, slightly crinkling at the corners.

"Yeah," I agree simply, lost for a moment in the way the light dances across his face, makes the sharp lines of his features look harder and softer at the same time. "You did."

Spike's eyes are still riveted on mine when he suddenly comes to an abrupt stop.

I frown, tearing my gaze away from his to glance around. We're somehow standing right in front of my porch.

When we reached Revello, I have no idea. I hadn't even realized we'd already been walking for close to twenty minutes.

I look back up at Spike, and the smile is all but gone from his lips now. His eyes are darker, too.

He sighs.

"Think I'll go," he says, going for light, but I can hear the somber undertones now. "Now that those wankers know where I live, don't wanna not be there if they happen to show up."

He shrugs, like he knows it makes logical sense, like we both know it's the smart thing to do. Obvious.

And it is. It should be.

But as I turn away from him and stare up into my lamp lit house, knowing he won't be coming in with me, it aches. Somewhere low in my chest, it aches. Feels empty.

So it takes a little more effort than I'd like it to for me to turn back to Spike and nod.

"Okay."

He takes a tiny step closer to me. Still far enough away that it doesn't appear intimate, necessarily, but close enough that the scents of aged leather and smokey mint flood my senses. Close enough that I find myself automatically leaning toward him.

So too close.

Spike's eyes are serious now as he looks at me, tilting his head down slightly, brow furrowed. All the lightness from a moment ago, gone.

"If you need anythin' at all," he murmurs, dropping his voice down impossibly low.

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't have to. Doesn't have to say anything at all, really. Not when he's looking at me like that.

So I just nod, giving him one last, meaningful look before I force myself to turn toward the porch steps. Taking them slowly, all the while feeling his eyes on my back.

And I'm not surprised when he calls my name.

I'd actually almost expected him to do it sooner, not wait for me to get all the way to the front door.

I turn back toward him, keeping one hand wrapped around the door knob. "Yeah?"

When he speaks again, the casual tone in his voice is back. Like what he's saying is simple, just another run-of-the-mill statement. The way you'd tell someone your favorite color, what time it is.

A fact.

 _The sky is blue._

 _It's dark outside._

 _The sun rises in the east._

"Think I'm fallin' in love with you."

He's gone before I can get my head around it, the gravity of it, what exactly he's just said. Leaving me there on my front porch, one hand still gripping the door handle. Gaping at his back. Speechless, frozen in place.

Back down the sidewalk and halfway down the street before I can fully process the words.

And my whole body is buzzing, deliciously warm with how very true they are.


	29. Chapter 28

My head is reeling when I walk into the house, dazedly kicking the front door closed behind me as I do.

"Buffy?"

I blanch slightly, the sound of my name being called from the other room bringing me sharply out of my thoughts, though the swirling warmth from a moment ago, from Spike's words, is still pervading my chest.

"Yeah," I say, shrugging out of my jacket and hanging it on the coat rack. "It's me."

I step through the foyer and into the living room.

Mom and Dawn are crashed out on the sofa, a big, fluffy blanket covering their legs, watching a movie. Mom looks over and smiles at me when I walk in.

I blink at them, a little stunned to find them both still up, still wide awake.

I feel suddenly like I haven't seen either of them in weeks.

Dawn looks over and smiles too, but the expression shifts a little as she looks at me. One eyebrow goes up.

"What's up?" She asks, shifting slightly on the sofa to make room for me, angling her body toward mine. "You look freaked."

Do I?

I don't feel freaked.

Not really.

I feel…overwhelmed maybe. Shocked, but not really surprised. And warm.

And okay, yeah, maybe a _little_ freaked.

Not that I can go into any detail about that now.

"Not freaked, exactly," I say, coming further into the room, dropping down onto the sofa beside Dawn. I lean around her, catching Mom's eyes with mine. "Do you remember Quinton Travers?" At her puzzled look, I reluctantly continue on. "You know, that whole…Watchers Council test thingy from a couple years ago?"

I can see it on her face when she realizes what I'm talking about. Her eyes go very wide, cheeks draining of whatever slightly rosy color had been in them a moment ago.

She shifts her eyes quickly down to Dawn, who still doesn't know this entire story, then back up to me.

She nods. "I do."

"Yeah," I say, exhaling. "Well, the boys are back in town."

 _And one girl_ , I think to myself, biting back the bitterness on my tongue, the slight wave of envy that threatens to choke out some of the tingling warmth from earlier.

I force it back down before it can.

Mom sucks in a deep breath, bringing me back to the moment.

"Oh, Buffy, no," she breathes, the slightest hint of fear, of that gripping motherly concern that manages to sound both worried and disapproving at the same time.

The same tone I've heard so, so many times since the night I'd first admitted to being the Slayer.

I immediately reach for her, passed Dawn, placing my hand over hers and squeezing.

I shake my head. "No, it isn't like that…" I make a face. "Exactly. No way creepy abandoned houses or insane vamps to fight." I squeeze her hand one more time before pulling it back into my own lap and shrugging, going for casual. "They just wanted to…check on me."

As I say the words, hear them in my head; I have to admit I'm pretty impressed with myself. It almost sounds like even I believe that.

Either way, I guess my explanation does the trick. Mom looks visibly less shaken when she nods at me. "How long are they staying for?"

 _Good question._

"I don't know for sure," I tell her, leaning my back against the large armrest behind me, twisting my hands together in my lap. "The first half of the review was today, and the second is tomorrow—"

Dawn cuts me off, her eyebrow raised high again. "Review?"

I nod, letting out a small sound somewhere between a chuckle and a groan, rolling my neck back so I can look up at the ceiling.

"Oh, yeah." I close my eyes. "A quote en quote 'exhaustive check of my methods', whatever that means." I open my eyes again, letting my head roll to the side, feeling the tension straining in my shoulders as I do. "I would have told you guys last night but I didn't want to worry you." I sit up straight again, putting my hand on my shoulder and pushing it backwards, stretching out the sore muscle. "Plus, I got home pretty late and—"

Dawn cuts me off again.

"Had a pow wow with Spike in the kitchen."

I freeze, hand still digging into my shoulder, staring at her. She just looks back at me like it's no big deal, shrugging casually. "Yeah, we heard you guys come in."

"You did?" I ask, brow furrowing.

Not because they'd heard us, but because I could have sworn we'd kept it down. Had consciously made an effort not to make too much noise, to keep our voices low.

I look toward Mom, who actually has an almost sheepish expression on her face. Like she's…embarrassed?

I frown.

"I got a little…worried when I thought I heard a male voice downstairs," she admits, smiling at me. "I checked your room first but you weren't there, so—"

"So she came and got me," Dawn interjects, again sounding so casual, almost bored. "And I explained it was probably just Spike."

I stare at Dawn, and it's my turn to raise my eyebrows at her.

I'm not panicked, or worried that they know. That they heard us. That they both seem to not only know that Spike was here, but that they both seem to be pretty casual about it.

Not surprising on Dawn's end, I guess, but Mom…well, I guess if I'm honest enough with myself it isn't so surprising either. She's always had sort of this weird soft spot where Spike's concerned.

It's never been much of a secret that she's always preferred him to Angel. It used to majorly wig me out.

Maybe she was just seeing something there that I couldn't.

So I probably shouldn't be surprised that she doesn't seem to think a whole lot of the fact that he was here, in the middle of the night, spending time with her oldest daughter who, last she knew, hated the bleached vampire.

And now I'm also kind of wondering what else Dawn might have told her.

I raise my eyebrows a little higher, the corner of my lips quirking into a small, wry smile.

"Oh, you did, huh?"

It's obvious by the tone of my voice what it is I'm actually asking her. My little sister's lips twitch like she wants to smile, but she doesn't.

Just nods.

I narrow my eyes at her slightly.

And as if to answer my unspoken question, Mom clears her throat, bringing my eyes directly back to hers.

She has a soft expression on her face. Her eyes slightly crinkled at the corners, twinkling a little as she looks at me. I can see her mouth is curved up in a smile, too. A tiny one, one that you might not even know was there if you weren't looking hard enough.

But I see it.

"I didn't know the two of you were so close, Buffy," she says, again in that Mom way. Where I know she's hinting at knowing more than she's saying, that her words hold a meaning she doesn't feel the need to explicitly state.

On cue, my cheeks flood with a fresh wave of heat. Not embarrassment, but something fresher. More pure.

Like when you tell a little girl you know she has a crush on that little boy she sits next to in her first grade classroom.

I'm blushing.

"It's…sort of a new development," I murmur, my own lips pulling into their own small, almost secretive smile. I shrug. "No biggie, really."

Which isn't true. Not even remotely.

It's a big biggie. Huge.

But Dawn doesn't even know that Spike and I have sealed the deal, and now isn't the time to be discussing all that, either. There will be plenty of time to explain all of that later. Much later. Say, when the Pocket Protector Pals have hopped their jet back to the motherland.

Mom gives me a long sideways look, like she doesn't quite believe me, but she nods anyway.

And it's funny. Even though I'd explicitly told Dawn not to say anything to Mom and any of this, I'm kind of glad that she did. While it's in Spike's best interest to tell as few people as possible right now, I like not having to hide it…at least not completely…from my family.

"Alright," she says, shifting the fuzzy blanket off her legs and pushing herself to a standing position. "Well, now that you're home, I think I'll head on up to bed." She winces a little, pressing two fingers to the side of her head as she does.

My smile immediately falls, and I get to my feet, too.

"What's wrong?" I ask, stepping toward her automatically.

Mom drops her hand from her temple, trying for another smile. "Nothing, Buffy. I'm fine. Still not feeling 100%, but I'm fine."

I frown, glancing down at Dawn once before back to Mom.

"Can I get you anything?" I ask, moving with her as she walks around me, moving for the foyer and the staircase. She smiles at me warmly, shaking her head.

"No, sweetie, that's okay." She reaches out, running a hand affectionately down my hair. "I'll see you in the morning."

Dawn barely waits for Mom to disappear up the stairs before she asks, "Okay, what's really going on?"

I wait until Mom disappears over the top of the landing and moves toward the hallway before I turn back to my sister. She's leaning over the edge of the sofa's armrest now, pinning me with a determined expression.

"What do you mean?" I ask, glancing one more time out the big bay window behind the sofa as I fold my arms up over my chest and walk back toward her.

Dawn rolls her eyes, like I should already know. "Why did you look so deer-in-headlights when you came in?"

I toy with the idea of lying to her.

With coming up with some excuse, telling her it had been nothing.

Blaming all of my bug eyed, deer-in-headlights-ness on the Council's review.

But there's something on her face that makes me pause before the words can leave my lips.

" _Think I might be fallin' in love with you."_

I've told Dawn everything, err… _almost_ everything else about this thing between me and Spike…why would I stop now?

Besides, if I ever needed a generally-unbiased-towards-Spike sounding board…now is probably the time.

"It's just something Spike said," I say, dropping my voice down a level and coming to sit beside her on the sofa. I lean back into the cushions and turn to look at her, and she's looking at me with this serious expression. Both eyebrows drawn together, her lips pursed.

"Something bad?" she asks, and I actually have to fight the urge to laugh out loud.

Something bad?

I shake my head.

My gut reaction to that question is no. That it's the _opposite_ of bad.

I sigh, letting my head loll back onto the back of the sofa, thinking about what it is I want to say.

How much I want to tell her.

I take a deep breath in, then let my head fall to the side so my eyes are locked with hers.

"He told me he thinks he might be falling in love with me."

Dawn's eyes light up, her brow smoothing over, the corners of her lips curving upwards.

She folds her arms loosely over her chest and leans backward.

"And this is a surprise to you?" she asks, eyebrow raised.

I blink at her, frowning slightly.

"It's not to you?"

The way she looks at me makes me feel like it's the dumbest question I've ever asked.

"Umm, no," she says, shaking her head and laughing at my apparently obvious obliviousness. "Not even a little bit."

I guess when I really think about it, I find I'm not all that surprised. Maybe I just thought I should be surprised, and that's why I'd acted the way I had.

That's when I realize.

It isn't the fact that he'd said it that had me surprised on the front porch. It was the way he'd said it, the unequivocal knowing he'd put into the words. The rush of sensation I'd felt flooding from him afterwards.

No, the words themselves weren't a surprise. The genuineness of the emotion, however, was.

How very much he'd meant the words when he'd said them.

And to me, of all people.

Even with the connection, with the claim…this feels different.

Bigger.

"Did you say it back?"

I blink, Dawn's question drawing me out of my thoughts and back into the moment. I look at her, and she's staring back at me expectantly.

"Say it back?" I ask, digging my hands into the sofa cushions below me and pushing myself up until I'm sitting straight again. "Dawn, say _what_ back?" _I'm falling in love with you, too?_ How lame would that have been? I shake my head, pinning her with a raised eyebrow. "He didn't…it's not like he actually _professed_ it or anything. And I still don't…" I trail off, chewing lightly on my bottom lip, looking down at my hands in my lap. "It's just not making a lot of sense to me right now."

It's not the truth. Not really.

Spike, my relationship with him, is just about the _only_ thing making sense to me right now, connection and claim be damned. What he'd said to me had caught me off guard, but it hadn't not made sense.

It made a lot of sense. Like it's just the natural next step in whatever eternity long situation we seem to have gotten ourselves in to.

Even if that comes along with it's own little set of wig inducing issues.

"Why is the Council here?" Dawn asks, jarring me once again out of my jumbled internal monologue.

"I told you—" I begin dismissively, but Dawn shakes her head, cutting me off.

"Something to make Mom feel better. Why are they _really_ here?" She thinks about it for a minute, and then her eyes go wide. "Oh! Does it have something to do with this thing going on with Spike?"

Her voice is loud, louder than I think she'd expected it to be, and it echoes up through the living room, making me wince.

I put both hands out toward her, pressing them palm down into the air to indicate for her to be quiet.

"Okay, percepto-girl, wanna take it down a notch?"

Dawn nods, looking at me sheepishly. I sigh, dropping my hands back down into my lap, casting one quick glance back over to the staircase. No movement.

"Yeah, it does." I turn my eyes back to Dawn's. "But they don't know its Spike." I make a face, grimacing slightly. "They think its Angel."

Dawn's eyes widen slightly and she lets out a tiny "Oh." And then a moment later her face relaxes slightly and she nods. "Good."

I roll my eyes.

So I guess that makes two Summers women now who would vote for the blonde over the brunette.

 _Well, three._

"Anyway," I say, drawing the conversation well away from my ex and back onto the issue at hand. "I guess Giles called them and told them…sort of what happened. Asked them for help, if they'd send over any resources they had. They decided they'd come here and play a round of 'Make Buffy Miserable' instead."

"I'm sorry," Dawn says. She might not know everything that happened that weekend during the Cruciamentum. Mom, Giles and I had done a good job of hiding the more horrific parts from her somehow, but she knows enough to recognize how unsettled the Council makes me.

And why.

I shrug. "It's okay." I force a small, hopefully reassuring smile. "Right now I'm just trying to play by their rules and get them gone."

She nods in understanding, turning away from me, back toward whatever movie was playing on the TV. It's rolling credits now.

It's silent between us for a little while after this. Dawn eventually reaches over and grabs the remote control, flipping the TV off and sending us and the rest of the living room into darkness.

"So what are you gonna do?" she finally asks, tucking her legs up underneath her and looking back at me.

I sigh, letting out a long, slow exhale through my nose.

"Finish the review, I guess."

It's quiet for another moment.

Then, "I meant about Spike."

I think I already knew that. Knew it when she asked, knew it when I answered.

I don't look at her as I respond now.

"I don't know."

Because I don't.

Or I do, but I don't know how to go about _doing_ it. But it's one of those things that I feel so strongly. Not a feeling really, but a knowing. Its there in the back of mind, has that distinct edge of inevitability to it.

Inevitable.

It feels like that's how most things in my life are going lately.

The same way drifting apart from Riley had been. The same way being completely, wholly drawn to Spike had been. The way I'd known he'd come to me if I asked. The way we'd both known it was only a matter of time before we completed the blood bond between us. This is like that, too.

I _will_ love him.

I know it, somewhere down deep. The place in my bones, in my gut, where I'd known everything else.

I will love Spike.

I think there's a part of me that already does.

And, irony of ironies, I actually think it's the Slayer part of me. The darkness, the demon.

And even as I fully recognize it, feel it, _know_ how very much a part of me it is…another part of me instinctively rejects it. The holier than thou, I'm the Slayer, I fight evil part. The part of me so stung, so traumatized by what had happened with Angelus that it's still firmly convinced that demon's can't love.

That demon's _without souls_ can't love.

And this just reminds me again of what I'd realized earlier. That it hadn't been the words, the confession itself that had left me so shocked on the porch, but the _feeling_ behind them.

"Do you still not know how you feel?" Dawn asks me, her bright blue eyes searching mine curiously.

I sigh, feeling the air travel through my lungs, filling them up slowly before I let myself exhale again.

"It's not really about how I feel," I say finally.

Because it isn't.

It's less about how I feel and more about how he feels. Or rather, the _truth_ of what he feels…thinks he feels.

Whether or not what either of us senses happening between us is real, if it's actually coming from us, or if it's something else entirely. Something out of our control all together, manifested itself as a result of everything else.

Some kind of cosmic side effect.

It's a lot to take in, a lot to sort through.

My head suddenly feels very, very heavy.

And as if reading my mind, Dawn yawns loudly, pushing herself up to her feet and turning one more time to look down at me.

"Maybe you should sleep on it."

I look at her for a long moment before I finally nod, getting up to my feet, too.

"Yeah," I say softly, turning one more time to glance out the big, dark windows leading out to the front yard. For the first time in weeks, I don't feel Spike out there. "Maybe I should."

I don't know how long I've been asleep for when my eyes suddenly fly open, taking in the darkness all around me. There's a sliver of moonlight filtering into the room, enough for me to see by, but not much. The shadows it casts across the far wall seem deeper than usual.

It's quiet. Much too quiet. Normally I can hear something. The wind, the sound of the house settling, some distant bump in the night coming from Dawn's room, or Mom's. The sound of my sister padding down the hall to the bathroom

But there's nothing.

I glance toward my bedroom door and notice that it's open, but just a crack. Like someone's opened it and slipped inside, not bothering to shut it all the way afterwards.

There's no light in the hallway, either.

And the room feels heavy. Dark in a way that doesn't have anything to do with the black night sky I can see outside my window.

It's my room, but it…isn't. It feels wrong.

 _Something's_ wrong.

Frowning, I brace my palm down flat beside me, readying to push myself up into a sitting position when I hear it.

"Well, well," he whispers, his voice low and smooth, lips soft against my ear. I feel the chill from his fingers, gliding up and over my bare arm. "Look who's awake."

Spike's hand comes to rest over my shoulder, chipped black nails digging firmly into my skin, pulling me backward, closer to him.

I turn instinctively, willingly in his arms, rolling over to face him.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, keeping my own voice soft, very low. Spike's eyes glitter at me through the darkness and he tilts his head slightly to the side. I press the palm of my hand into his bare chest, feeling the smooth, hard plans of his muscles beneath my touch.

He smirks at me.

"You know why I'm here, Slayer," he whispers, voice honeyed, seductive. He drops his eyes down away from mine, focusing them on my arm instead. On the silky, slow path his fingers are trailing up my skin.

I swallow hard, my own eyes glued to his face.

"I do?" I ask hesitantly, keenly aware of the unnatural darkness in the room. How I can just barely make out the sharp lines of Spike's cheekbones, the curve of his jaw, the swell of his bottom lip.

Nothing about this feels right.

Spike just nods, the smirk on his lips curving more fully. The slow smirk suddenly turns wicked.

An expression I haven't seen, haven't really seen, in months.

But it's the lack of emotion coming from him that seals it, lets me know exactly what this is. Why everything feels so off.

A dream.

"Here to get what's mine." His hand trails up my arm, gliding smoothly over my shoulder, further on up to my neck. He splays his hand over the place where I vaguely seem to recognize his mark is supposed to be.

But when he touches me, I feel nothing.

No sense of ownership. No shuddering jolt. No thrill down my spine.

Nothing.

And for the first time in a very, very long time, I'm afraid.

I'm afraid of this version of Spike lying beside me.

 _It's just a dream._

And even as I force myself to say it, to recognize it, my stomach starts to twist.

And that's when his grip tightens, the pad of his thumb suddenly digging hard into the base of my throat.

My hand flies up automatically, nails scraping the smooth flesh of his chest as I yank it back, covering his hand with mine. Pulling at it as hard as I can.

The pressure only increases.

I start to cough.

Wrong. _Everything_ about this is wrong.

"Spike," I manage to choke his name out between increasingly panicked gasps, trying, failing to suck whatever air I can into my lungs.

I'm starting to see spots behind my eyes.

Continuing to pull at the hand on my throat, I can feel the strength as it's stripped from my muscles. My eyes flutter shut, vision going blurry.

"Look at me."

My eyes snap open again, and he's staring straight at me. The gleaming gold of his demon pinning me with such staggering malice, such mind numbing hatred, that if I had any air left in my lungs, it would have been stolen.

Hot tears sting my eyes as I try and pull in one last, ragged breath.

Just as I'm about to let it happen, let the darkness that's crowding in around my eyes, against my mind, have me… everything changes.

The first thing I notice is that we're no longer in my bed, inside my bedroom, but outside. In the cemetery. Somewhere I vaguely recognize but don't, like this, too, is wrong. Off.

The second thing I notice is that I feel like I'm two places at the same time. Standing to the side, watching the events of the dream as they unfold, but also…me. Like I'm experiencing everything from more than one angle.

Like I'm being _allowed_ to see something.

It's with this wiggy two-places-at-once feeling that I realize what is that's happening in this part of the dream. It's still about Spike, or more accurately, Spike and I.

We're engaged with each other, mid-fight. I'm able to land several solid punches to his stomach, his chest, and finally one to his jaw before he whirls around and catches me off guard. I recognize the move, somewhere deep in my subconscious. It's the kick.

That spinning kick that Spike had forced me to learn how to block.

I don't block it in the dream.

His kick comes down hard against the side of my head, knocking me backward. It sends me flying, hard, into a large headstone. My head flies back into the grave marker with a sickening thud, cracking the massive piece of stone in half.

I sink to the ground, eyes wide open, but glassy. Unfocused. Unseeing.

I barely have time to register from the sidelines what it is that's happened before the cemetery starts to melt away.

And then suddenly things shift again. We're not in the cemetery, not outside, but back in Spike's crypt.

And we're having sex.

Not in the worn down armchair, where we'd been the last time, but somewhere else. Somewhere very dark.

It doesn't even _look_ like the crypt to my eyes. Not really. But somehow, again, I know that's where we are.

Possibly the room downstairs, the one I've never seen.

And we're on a bed. Our bodies entwined, naked, moving at a languorous, unhurried pace. I can hear the sounds we're making, little pants, soft moans, both of us breathing heavily. I'm on top of him, hips undulating a steady, pulsing rhythm in time with the heady groans of pleasure that seem to be coming from both of our lips.

And I can see it all, feel it all, again at the same time. Every detail, down to the sweat from my skin gleaming in the dim light cast by the single torch on the wall.

I lean further into him, palms pressed flat to his chest, nails digging so hard into his perfect skin I draw blood.

He cries out and arches his hips up into me, and I throw my head back, gasping.

Then he suddenly flips us, my back slamming hard down into the mattress as he surges his body forward, his pelvis flush against mine, pressing hard into me. And I feel it happen, watch it happen, as my inner muscles clench and begin fluttering around him. Feel him letting go and following me over the edge.

And just as I fall apart beneath him, he growls, eyes glowing feral and yellow and buries his fangs savagely in the top of my breast. He pulls one long, slow swallow of my blood into his mouth.

I shudder beneath him again, hands flying to his hair as if to pull him away from me as my legs begin shaking, toes starting to go numb.

But I feel weak. The grip I have in his hair ineffective, my fingers slipping back down to his shoulders as he continues to drink from me. Deep, hearty pulls of my blood, one after the other. Just when I think he's about to stop, he keeps going.

And I just lie there, unable to move. Unable to speak. My arms and legs so numb, so spent, that I don't even have enough energy in me to protest.

Even though I know I'm dying.

After another endless moment, I vaguely feel Spike pull away from me, his fangs stinging as they release my swollen flesh.

And I hear it. The soft, murmured word, through the haze of black that's threatening to consume me.

"Mine."

After another endless moment, my hands go cold.

I wake up screaming.

Not just a small scream, either. Not a little gasping sound, the kind I woke up to every night when my dreams first began all those months ago.

Screaming in a way I know I haven't since the first time I ever went hunting with Merrick.

I've thrashed so much in my sleep that my thick comforter is half on, half off the bed. I'm fisting the tangled sheets in my hands, a cold sweat pouring down my back, leaving my skin damp, chilled, covered in goose bumps.

My heart is hammering against my ribs.

It takes a minute for my heart to stop racing, and once it does, the nausea sets in.

And it isn't me that I feel sick for. Isn't me that I'm immediately concerned about. I don't have to wonder; don't have to think for one minute about what it is that I've just seen.

Spike's dreams. His nightmares.

The ones he'd started having the last time he'd tried to kill me.

I knew what they'd been about. That they'd been about…killing me. He'd told me. Had even told Giles.

But he'd never _described_ them…

My stomach rolls again, thinking about how real, how _incredibly_ real they had felt. Even though I'd know, actively known, throughout that they were just that. Dreams.

And a horrible thought hits me out of nowhere, making my head ache. Does Spike still have them?

He hasn't mentioned them to me, but would he, if he did?

 _Oh, God_.

I reach both shaking hands up to push the sweat-slick strands of hair off my face, running my fingers through the tangled mess of my hair.

When I look over at the lock, I realize I've slept all day.

It's almost 4 o-clock in the afternoon.

I have to see Spike. Now.

I stumble out of bed, my feet tangled in the sweat soaked sheets, and haphazardly yank some clothes out of my closet, not bothering to really check if it's an outfit that works before hastily throwing it on and bounding out of my room.

I don't even bother explaining where I'm going when Mom asks me, just shout over my shoulder that I'll be back later and tear off down the street toward Restfield.

It takes me only minutes to reach Spike's crypt, and I don't stop for one second to think that someone might be watching me. That someone might think to ask me why it is I'm flying down the street to visit my oh-so-reluctant vampire ally in the middle of the afternoon.

I don't care.

I only have one thing on my mind right now, and it has absolutely nothing, _nothing_ , to do with the Council.

And as soon as I push the heavy door open and step inside, he's there.

Spike's already there. Standing, shirtless, at the bottom of the crypt's small set of stairs and pacing back and forth like a caged animal.

"Buffy?" He asks, whipping his head around immediately, taking in my flustered appearance with big, worried eyes.

The same way I'm taking in his.

He looks terrible.

Or…as terrible as someone that looks like Spike can.

Smallish, slightly purple bags under his eyes, like he hasn't slept at all. Platinum curls standing up in disarray, partially still gelled, twisted this way and that on his head like he's been tossing and turning. His azure eyes are wide, haunted.

Looking at me a little bit like he's seen a ghost.

Like I've startled him.

But the position of his body, the way he's standing right in front of his steps, just where he knows the sun won't reach him, lets me know he's probably been expecting me.

"Yeah," I say, the word coming out strained, my voice still a little hoarse from sleep.

Maybe from the screaming.

"Shouldn't be here, pet," he says quietly, but he's already up the stairs, grabbing hold of one of my shaking hands and pulling me to him. He maneuvers us back down the steps and into the open interior of the crypt. "Look bloody strange if someone saw you–"

"I saw it," I whisper, still clinging to his hand, feeling my fingers twitching, still shaking a little, inside his. His eyes shoot up to my face, looking even more concerned than they had a moment ago. I swallow. "What you see in your nightmares," I clarify, even though a part of me thinks he already knows what I'd meant. "I saw it."

Spike drops my hand immediately, so fast it's like my skin is suddenly laced with Holy water.

"Bloody hell," he murmurs, and his voice is suddenly different. Thicker, somehow. He turns away from me, exhaling slowly, scrubbing his hands down his face. He shakes his head. "That's why. No wonder you felt so frightened."

I don't have to ask him why he looks so shaken up.

It's more than obvious to me he hasn't slept. Or if he has, it hasn't been well.

I clear my throat, trying to get some of the hoarseness to go away. I wish he'd look at me.

I understand why he isn't.

"Is that the way it happens every time?" I ask softly, consciously keeping my voice very low.

The air between us is tense, shaky, charged high with both of our emotions. A chaotic mix of fear, anxiety, anger. Mind numbing concern.

When Spike finally answers my question, I can hear it in his voice. How hard it is for him to admit it, to tell me.

Whether it's because he's been trying so hard to hide these nightmares from me, or something else, I'm not sure.

"Every time," he murmurs softly, and I watch his shoulders go up and down as he inhales and exhales again. Then he turns his head over his shoulder and looks me in the eyes. His eyes are bright, shining. They almost look wet as he says, "Even now."

And I swear I can hear the sound of my heart breaking open in my chest.

Because the implication is so clear in his voice, in his eyes.

Even now.

Even now that he's falling in love with me.

It makes it so much worse for me, the same gut wrenching, chest tightening, crippling worry I'd felt immediately upon waking flooding my veins again.

These nightmares haunt him even now.

When the tears come, they don't surprise me. Not the way they had yesterday standing in Giles's apartment. These are different.

These aren't about me.

These aren't selfish.

I ache for _him_. In that same deep place where I know things, I ache for him. My whole body hurts for the pain etched across his flawless face, the obvious torture these visions have inflicted on him.

I just want to take it all away.

I think that's why I'd come here.

Even though I know he doesn't want me to, can feel how strongly he's trying to keep the space between us now, I cross the small space between us and place my hand on his bare arm.

He flinches away from me, but I tighten my grip and refuse to let him.

"Spike," I whisper, my own voice thick, heavy with unshed tears. "Look at me."

I don't mean to make him do it. I hadn't intended to use that tone, the pleading command. It just happened.

Before I can think, he's already turning into my hand, slowly coming to stand square in front of me.

"It's not real," I tell him quietly, hand still steady against his arm. I focus all my energy into the place where my skin presses against his. And I repeat the words I'd repeated to myself, over and over again while it was happening. "Just a dream."

Spike shakes his head, looking down at me with fathomless navy blue irises.

"No," he says softly, "it's _very_ real, luv. The things you saw? Those were things I wanted." His voice lowers slightly, taking on an almost husky quality as he narrows his eyes. "Things I _fantasized_ about."

I don't have to ask to know which part he's talking about.

"But you don't anymore," I say firmly, sternly, hardening the lines of my mouth as I look up into his face. My grip on his arm tightens slightly, pressing my thumb harder into his smooth skin. "You don't want that anymore."

I'm not asking, I'm telling. The tone of my voice leaves no room for argument.

But I realize I am sort of asking. Even if just subconsciously.

Because I _want_ to hear him say it. Need to, after what I've just seen.

"No," he says, agreeing with me slowly, even though the haunted look is still in his gaze. "Don't want that anymore."

His words from the other night, what he'd said to me out in the cemetery before the claim, come ringing back to my ears.

 _I can't imagine a world without you in it._

God, could I really be so blind?

I sigh, some of the tenseness in my shoulders relaxing as I whisper, "Because you're falling in love with me."

His lips twitch into the tiniest of smiles then, and I feel the change immediately. Whether if it's because I've said it, or if just because he's been reminded of it, I don't know.

But the warmth is back.

It floods through my chest, twisting its way through my veins until my hands are no suddenly no longer shaking and I can practically feel the color returning to my cheeks.

His eyes have lost a little of their hollowness when he looks down at me again, and nods.

I reach my free hand up, pressing my palm lightly over his chest. The spot where his heart would be.

It's one of my favorite spots.

I frown, dropping my gaze away from his eyes and focusing on my fingertips, the color of my deeply tanned skin against the cream of his.

Again, dark and light.

And again, I find myself not understanding the feeling I'm getting from him. How strong, how completely and wholly authentic it feels.

I frown.

"You don't have a soul," I whisper, not really for either of our benefits, but more almost like I'm thinking out loud. "How can you—"

"Love without a soul?" he asks, filling in the rest of the question for me.

I can feel Spike's eyes on me, but the sudden tenseness in his voice, the sharp bitter edge, makes me not want to look at him right now. I keep my own gaze glued to my hand and nibble down on the swell of my lip, nodding once.

The surge of frustration comes hard, and fast, shooting down into the pit of my stomach and tangling it up into knots that had all but disappeared a moment ago.

"Right," he drawls, his voice no longer thick, but biting. Sarcastic. "Knew it'd bloody come back to this." He sighs, but doesn't move away from me. "This about Peaches?"

I wince at the mention of Angel, knowing that that's exactly the thought I'd been drawn to the night before. Not that Spike couldn't be falling in love with me, just that from all the experiences I've had with soulless demons…which in some ways is a whole heck of a lot, and in other ways is pretty minimal…they weren't exactly able to show their warm and fuzzy sides.

And it's what I've always been taught. What they've all told me.

The Council. Giles. Angel.

 _You can't love without a soul._

Vampire aren't people, they're demons. Demons that remember their human counterparts but who, when it really comes down to it, _aren't_ them.

But that logical side of me is quieted by the truth of what I've experienced more recently. That I've _felt_ it. I've felt the timbre of Spike's emotions, how strong they are, how so much like mine.

They don't feel hollow. Don't _feel_ like memories.

I've been told for so long that the only thing a vampire feels is hate. But if that's true, then Spike is more of an anomaly than any of us have ever given him credit for.

Over the last five years, and well before any of this even happened, he'd shown us as many different emotions, as much a capacity to be helpful as he does to be harmful, as we have.

More, even, than some.

I've faced my share of humans who are just as wholly evil, who do just as horrible of things as any demon I've ever taken out.

Either Spike is truly the strangest vampire to have ever walked the face of the planet, or we can't be entirely right about what we've been thinking.

After everything I've been put through at the hands of the Council, I'm more than tempted to think it's the latter.

And as though he's reading my mind, Spike reaches toward me, cupping the side of my face very delicately in his cool hand.

"Don't need a soul to feel _anythin'_ , pet." He tilts his head to the side slightly, studying my face intently. Any bitterness from a moment ago, gone now as he brushes the pad of his thumb over my cheek and whispers, "Least of all love."

And I have to admit, with him touching me so gently, with him looking at me like that.

Like he's been blind for years, like he's been trapped somewhere cold and black and dark for as long as he can remember. And I'm the sun.

And I believe him.

"But…is it the same?" I ask, more for my benefit, to get him to say it out loud for me than because I really need an answer. "Or is it like…a memory?"

I force myself to hold his gaze, searching his eyes with mine.

I don't think even I believe that anymore, but I have to ask. If what he's feeling for me is just a memory of the man. A feeling that the demon can remember, can recreate. Mimic. Like an echo. All the nuances of the emotion are gone, but the gist, the generality of it remain behind.

I've barely gotten the question out, barely had the last words pass my lips before he's kissing me.

He covers my mouth with his, letting the hand on my face slide up, tangling his fingers in my hair and angling my head slightly to increase our contact.

His lips are soft, gentle and demanding at the same time.

And there's no lust in this kiss. No animalistic need, no violent, primal pull. It isn't sexual at all, obviously isn't leading anywhere.

Just his lips moving over mine, his hand pulling me gently into him, fingers cradling the back of my head with more tenderness than I think I've ever felt before, ever. From anyone.

He's kissing me the way that any man would kiss the woman he loves.

It's so simple, and somehow it manages to steal all the air from my lungs anyway, those familiar little butterfly wings unfurling, fluttering up from my stomach even as he releases me.

Not fully. Not breaking contact, keeping his hand in my hair, pressing his forehead to mine.

"That feel like an echo to you?" he asks quietly, rubbing the tip of his nose very lightly over mine.

"No," I breathe, still trying to catch my breath.

Because it doesn't.

I don't think it ever has.

I'm not even sure why I'd bothered to ask.

 _Not that I'm complaining about the response he's given me._

But my brain is starting to function again, starting to spin, swirl with the other thoughts I'd toyed with just briefly the night before.

His emotions, what he's feeling, they feel real. But how much of that is _real_ real, and how much of it is the connection?

The claim?

How can I know that what he feels for me and what I feel for him aren't just weird manifestations of whatever it is in me, whatever it is that my demon, my darkness, sees in his?

And if it isn't that…if it is real. Is that better or worse? Does that make things easier to understand, or more complicated?

And I find suddenly that I really need to know. That I want to know.

And the question is out before I can really think about what it is I'm asking.

"Are you falling in love with me because of the claim?"

Spike pulls back from me slightly; enough that he can see my eyes, look down into my face.

His brow furrows, and he shakes his head.

"No, Buffy." And he shakes his head again, almost more adamantly this time. "Not because of the claim. Claims don't…they _can't_ make you feel things."

 _Oh._

Okay. Well that's good to know at least.

One down… "Could it be because of the connection?"

This makes Spike pause briefly.

His response before had been automatic, but this…I realize we're both a little in the dark on this.

Again, I don't know why I always expect him to have the answers.

I watch as he turns his eyes up to the ceiling and inhales deeply. Then he sighs, exhaling through his nose.

"Maybe," he admits slowly, reluctantly, and I feel my shoulders sag just a little, immediately dropping my eyes down toward the ground.

The hand Spike has in my hair, holding the back of my head, increases its pressure a little. He forces my eyes back to his.

And there's that look again.

I swallow.

"Don't know all the answers, pet," he murmurs, wrapping his free arm around my waist and tugging me slightly closer to him. "Don't know if these…feelings come with the package or not."

He sighs, leaning his forehead back onto mine. His lashes flutter closed.

I let mine do the same.

We stand there like this for a moment, my hands somehow finding there way back to their spot on his chest, the hand his has in my hair slowly massaging the base of my skull with deft fingertips.

Then I open my eyes again and murmur, "Maybe we should find out."

It's another idea I've been toying with absently since last night.

Up until this point I haven't cared much about whatever information Travers claims to have. Never thought it mattered, didn't really care even if it did.

Now, I'm starting to re-think that.

Spike's eyes open too, and he pulls back slightly once more.

"Does it matter?" He asks, dark brows knitting together in concern as his eyes search mine. "Does it make it any less…real, if it is all a part of this connection business?"

And I hate myself a little for what I say next, even though I know it's the truth.

"It matters more than I want it to."

His eyes flash, and I get a fresh wave of emotion rolling down my back and know that I've hurt him.

"Fine."

He moves away from me, dropping his hands and stepping backwards, and every inch of me protests at the loss. I close my eyes, groaning inwardly.

"Spike—"

"So you plan to keep playing this little game of theirs then?" He asks me, a touch of the bitter edge I've heard a few times back in his voice now. "Find out what it is they know?"

"It's our best option right now," I say, opening my eyes again. "You don't want to know what all this might mean?"

Spike scoffs, turning away from me, taking two steps away, then whirling around and coming right back.

"No, what I want to _know_ ," he says, pausing pointedly, pointing an index finger in the direction of the crypts door. "Is why you let them control you like this." He drops his hand down, letting it fall against the denim of his jeans with a smack. He shakes his head, and suddenly the bitterness is gone, replaced with something else. Something…worse.

Disappointment.

"They are _nothing_ without you," he tells me, widening his eyes meaningfully. "You just don't realize it."

Something in his voice has my chest tightening.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

Spike shrugs, looking away from me as he raises his hands up, splaying black fingernails across the pale skin of his hips. "Just that these Watchers…their entire lot in life is to what," he looks back at me again, " _watch_ their Slayers? Train them. Prepare them." He takes a step closer to me, lowering his voice as he does. "Everything for _them_ revolves around the likes of _you_." He pauses, waiting for my brain to catch up, for me to understand what it is he's telling me. "If there's no Slayer then by default…there're no Watchers, either."

I blink at him, my brow furrowed now. It's the order of things, Travers had said. Been this way from the beginning.

The Council fights evil.

The Slayer is the instrument they use to fight evil.

But now I have to wonder…what _would_ the Council do if there wasn't a Slayer? How would they fight the evil that Travers claims is their duty to fight without their "instrument"?

Go out and do it themselves?

Yeah.

 _I'd like to see them try._

I turn my eyes, now wide with understanding, back to Spike. "You're saying—"

He nods. "That you have all the power here, luv."

He steps up to me, reaching for me once more, strong hands gripping my hips through the denim of my jeans. He doesn't pull me against him, just exerts a little pressure with his hands. "Just gotta know how to use it."

Power.

" _It's a power play."_

It's always been about who has the power, and I've always just…automatically assumed that it was them.

But why?

Because they're the Council? Because they made me believe that was the case? But what Spike's just said is true…they spend their lives watching, researching, intimidating their "instrument" into behaving and doing whatever it is they want her to do.

None of us have ever even considered what they'd do if they didn't have us to control. To manipulate.

And it's something I don't think I ever would have realized entirely on my own.

I reach up, laying my hands gently over Spike's forearms, tilting my head to the side.

My lips start to curve up in a small smile.

"I guess I've never thought of it that way," I tell him.

His lips curve up, too.

"Not just a pretty face, yeah?"

No. Definitely not just a pretty face.

I'm struck one more time with how little I really know about him, my eyes going around him, to the stack of books just barely visible from where I'm standing on the bottom shelf of the table.

I can see from here that the poetry book has been shifted. Moved.

It's on the bottom of the pile now, not the top, where I'd left it.

I glance back toward Spike, drinking in the soft expression on his face.

Whatever it is he's hiding, whatever secrets are in his past. I'm going to get to them, sooner or later.

"No," I agree simply, leaning up on my tiptoes to press a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips.

And then I pull out of his grip, turning my back on him to make my way back up the steps.

I feel the confusion rolling off of him before the question is out.

"Where are you going?"

I stop with one foot on the bottom stair to turn around and glance at him over my shoulder.

"To the review," I say simply, but there's none of the same despondence in the word now like there had been every time before. No little niggling fear coloring the phrase, no sense of dread. "I'm gonna be late as it is, it starts in 5 minutes."

Spike frowns deeply, either not hearing the distinct change in my voice, or not caring. He instantly reaches for me again.

"Buffy—"

I side step out of his reach, offering him a small, knowing smile as I move up the small set of steps.

I stop at the door, turning full around to face him one more time.

"Trust me, okay?" I ask, searching his eyes with mine. "I'll come by after it's over, let you know how it went."

He must hear it then. Or maybe it's something he sees on my face.

Either way, the expression on his face relaxes and he manages one small, short nod.

Then he turns away from me.

I put my hand on the door's handle, preparing to turn it, and then a thought pops into my head.

"Spike," I say, turning my face back toward his just as he spins around, meeting my eyes with his.

He raises one eyebrow.

And I don't know why I say it, exactly. Or why I choose to phrase it the way I do.

Maybe it's because of the double meaning it feels like it has.

Maybe it's because I want to say it, but don't want to simply parrot back what he's said to me last night.

Maybe it's because I want to actually say it, but I'm still not sure if it's wholly true just yet.

Maybe it's because of that same sense of inevitability.

I don't know.

Whatever the reason, whatever the deepest meaning behind it, it doesn't really matter all that much.

It's all leading to the same place.

"I'm going to love you," I tell him softly, watching from the doorway as the emotions travel over his perfect face.

And then I'm gone.

Pushing the door open and stepping out into the low evening light, the last of the sun's rays beaming down on the wide smile that splits my face.

And even though it's cold outside, I don't feel it.


	30. Chapter 29

The sun is just starting to set as I round the corner onto Main street, the bright lights shining out at me from the open front windows of the Magic Box.

I'm not surprised to find Quinton and the rest of his Watchers already gathered around the research table when I walk in, expressions on their faces ranging everywhere from bored to contemptuous. Giles is standing beside the large bookshelf to the left of them, watching them with wary eyes.

What does surprise me, however, are the faces of my friends looking back out at me from the Magic Box's top loft space.

My eyes shoot up back up to them, trying quickly to scan their faces, read the expressions in their eyes. I wonder if they know now. Know, at the very least, what it is the Council is here to look in to.

That there's something going on between me and a vampire. If they would have mentioned what I'd done, that they think it's Angel. Willow's eyes are wide, luminous. Worried. Tara's expression is something similar. Anya, for the most part, looks relatively unfazed by what, if anything, she's been told.

And Xander's eyes are narrowed. Not at me, but at Travers.

I wonder who's interview it was that didn't end up going so well.

"You're late," Quinton murmurs derisively, bringing my attention back to him and reminding me why I'd come here in the first place.

My eyes narrow.

I fix him with a hard expression and nod.

"Yeah."

Giles must hear the little something different in my voice, because from the corner of my eye I see him looking at me, see him stand up a little straighter. He uncrosses his arms.

If Travers has noticed, though, he doesn't address it. I watch as he flips open his big leather bound notebook, pulling out a pen.

"We can begin the review at last." he eyes me through his lashes, coolly. "We'll, uh, skip the more obvious questions…"

I shake my head, putting my hands firmly on my hips. Unconsciously, over the exact spot Spike's had been earlier. I feel one corner of my mouth twitch up into a wry smile.

And my voice is strong when I say it. Loud, clear. Leaving no room for argument.

"There isn't gonna be a review."

The completely shocked look on Quinton's face is worth every second I've agonized over this moment.

And watching him start to look suddenly uncomfortable fills me with a burst of that ever elusive power we've all been talking about for the past two days. A warm, deep seated pride. Just the tiniest bit of offensiveness from me, the slightest hint that I might not be willing to play this little game of theirs and he's already looking like a deer in headlights.

"Sorry?" he asks, turning in his seat to look more fully at me.

Behind him, some of the other Watchers shift uneasily.

The small twitch in my lips curves up into a full blown smile. A cold, knowing smile. And my head is full of exactly one thought, and one thought only.

Spike was right.

"No review," I repeat, stepping a little closer to their table and folding my arms up over my chest. "No interrogation." Another step. "No questions you know I can't answer." And another. "No hoops, no jumps…" I come to stand right in front of him, almost over him, looking down my nose at this man who has done nothing, nothing but make my life more difficult every time I've come in contact with him.

My eyes narrow again, and I swear I see his face pale.

"And no interruptions."

Quinton instinctively leans away from me, further back into his chair.

"Miss Summers—" he starts to say, but I turn my back on him without warning, the swift movement somehow managing to cut him off before he can get any more words out.

I close my eyes for a moment and think about what it is I want to get out of this. What I want to say, what I want to know. Channeling the feeling I'd had earlier, just a few minutes ago, standing with Spike in his crypt. That confidence, that peace.

Again, the word comes to mind.

Power.

My eyes snap back open and I take a few steps away from the research table, casting a sidelong glance at Giles as I do. He's staring at me with very wide eyes.

I just nod at him before turning back around again.

"Let's just get down to what all this is really about. It's power, right? Who has it. Who knows how to use it. Who knows how to manipulate others into thinking they don't have it when really, they're the only ones that do. Power. I have it." I look directly at Quinton now, making sure he understands exactly what I'm saying to him. I tilt my head to the side and let the cool smile to fall from my lips as I whisper, "You don't."

He flinches. Physically flinches away from me as I say it. Another surge of pride swells through my chest and I lean slightly back away from him, pausing a moment longer before turning my sweeping attention to the rest of the crowd behind him.

"You guys didn't come all the way from England to threaten me, or to check my methods, or even to make sure what Giles told you was true. You came to give your jobs, your lives some…semblance of meaning."

From off to the left, one of the other Watchers…Nigel, I think…steps forward suddenly. His face is pinched, flushed with irritation.

And something that might actually be fear as he sputters something along the lines of, "This is beyond insolence-"

He doesn't get to finish that sentence.

I reach over to the items displayed on the bookshelf just beside Giles, gripping a decorative dagger in my hand and throwing it, aiming it with a deadly accuracy that only years of pent up frustration can muster.

Not at him, exactly. Just above his head.

It sticks in the wall above and behind him with thud, the handle bowing slightly back and forth with the force.

"I'm fairly certain I said no interruptions," I say coolly, my hand still out in front of me in the position it had been when I'd thrown the dagger a moment ago.

He looks back and forth between me and the still-swaying handle for a few long moments before finally turning and staring full on at me, blinking. His eyes have gone impossibly wide.

And yes, fear. It's definitely fear.

I can halfway sense it, feel it, the adrenaline coming off all five of them as they stare back at me.

Good.

Let them know how it feels, for once.

Satisfied that there won't be any more interruptions, I turn back around to face Quinton.

"You're Watchers," I begin, starting once again to pace very slowly back and forth in front of the table. "Without a Slayer," I turn another wan smile back in Quinton's direction, folding my arms again. "You're pretty much just watching Masterpiece Theater."

From above me, a little to the right, I hear a chuckle. I turn my eyes up briefly, just in time to see Xander murmuring something into Willow's ear. He grins down at me.

I smile back.

So they must not know too much.

I turn my eyes back to Travers, letting the smile remain on my face, but turning slightly colder as I gaze at him.

He swallows visibly, and the surge of power running rough shot through my veins is back.

"And as far as any information you have that might help me goes…" I trail off, cocking my head to the side thoughtfully. The knowledge is a quick realization, like someone's just flipped the light on in my head. "Well, that's all you can actually do with whatever it is you know. Help me." Then I shrug, my voice turning biting, sarcastic. "Well, except maybe publish it in the 'Everyone Thinks We're Insane-O's Home Journal.'"

And I can see it on Quinton's face now, that he knows I'm right. That he knows what I do. That they all do.

They need me. Not the other way around.

I lean a little closer to him, narrowing my eyes and delight a little more than I should in the way he visually blanches away from me.

Then again, this man did try and kill me…more than once. So maybe I'm getting just the right amount of pleasure out of all this.

"So here's how it's gonna work," I say, my voice still hard, but deceptively conversational. "You're gonna tell me everything you know. Then…you're gonna go away."

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Giles, the small, proud smile forming on his lips as he watches me.

And another thought pops into my head. "I want Mr. Giles to be reinstated as my official Watcher, and at full salary…"

Beside me, Giles coughs, muttering a stifled "Retroactive" under his breath.

I don't miss a beat.

"To be paid retroactively from the month he was fired."

I turn to look at him, and he's positively beaming at me.

I can't help but grin back at him, remembering his words from the day before. That he's with me on this.

With us.

And if I hadn't quite believed him yesterday, the look on his face now lets me know that I can believe him now.

It feels like it's been ages since he's looked at me like he is now, and even though I know in the back of my mind that I don't need…don't crave his approval the way I might have before all of this happened, it's still nice to have it. To know I have him at least a little on my side.

Because things are about to get messy.

I take a deep breath in and let the air out slowly, realizing it's been downright silent in the room for the last few moments.

Everyone's eyes are fixed on me.

Good.

I turn slowly back to face Travers, and I feel the corners of my lips turn back down, forming a hard line.

I have to choose my words very carefully here, and I know it. While I'm no longer cowering in fear thinking of what the Council might try and do to me, to Spike, I'm still way on the opposite end of trusting them.

That, coupled with the four pairs of eyes I feel looking down on my from the loft, has me taking one more steadying breath before I finally begin to speak once more.

"As for my…situation," I begin hesitantly, clearing my throat. "I don't want you involved. In any way. You'll tell me what you know and then you'll be done here." I force myself to stand up a little straighter, tilting my head back so I'm looking at the Watchers in front of my from over the bridge of my nose. "I will continue to handle it the way I see fit."

It's very quiet for another impossibly long stretch before the giant sound of someone else clearing their throat has my eyes turning away from Quinton's cold grey ones and over, behind his right shoulder.

Lydia.

Of course.

She's clutching her own notepad to her chest, glasses slipping down her nose as she slightly raises her visually trembling free hand up.

And I can't help the slow swell of possessive jealousy that's pulsing down into my fingertips, even though I'd known this time to expect it. I grip my arms tighter, digging my nails into the fabric of my shirt and raise my eyebrows at her, indicating for her to speak.

"I, uh, I…don't want a knife thrown at me," she manages to stammer out, lowering her hand slowly to grip the other side of her notebook. I feel my lips twitch a little at that. "But, but…a Slayer and a vampire…joined together this way." She shakes her head, managing to look incredibly pretentious and legitimately concerned at the same time. "It's dangerous."

I frown.

This is the second time one of these Watchers has referred specifically to how dangerous the connection between us might be. When Travers had said it, it hadn't really registered. I'd felt like it was something he just…said to say it.

But the way Lydia's said it just now is different. Not like she just needed a word to describe it, not like she's trying to scare me, but that she knows something…

And it also hasn't escaped my attention that the expressions on all four of my friends faces have noticeably changed. I only take time to spare a glance their way briefly, taking in the further widening eyes of Willow before I decide that dealing with them, explaining what's going on to them, can wait a few more minutes.

Can wait for me to get my answers.

I look back toward Lydia.

"The only thing that's dangerous are the things the Council forces their Slayer's to believe," I say coldly, my voice dripping with the complete and total disdain I feel right now for all of them. For their organization. For the things it's done to my sister Slayers.

To me.

I turn my head back to face Quinton, finally letting my arms drop down, leaning forward to place my palms flat on the table directly in front of him.

"So unless anyone else has something to say…" I wait, listening, for any sound. Nothing. I smile. "Then I want an answer right now from Quinton."

And I tilt my head one more time to the side, lowering my voice to a soft whisper that belies the smile curving my lips now.

"Cause I think he's understanding me."

The room goes tense as I wait for him to answer me. A different kind of quiet than before. I notice that he seems to be having trouble making direct eye contact with me, and again, that tiny surge of pleasure filters through me.

And when he finally speaks, finally forces himself to look me in the face, he sounds truly defeated.

"Your terms are…acceptable."

I almost can't believe it. Almost wonder if I possibly could have heard him right.

For all the confidence I'd felt coming in here, I realize now that I'd never been completely sure that it would work. Even having recognized the truth of what Spike had told me, seeing the worry on Quinton's face, feeling the adrenaline, the rolling fear coming from every single Watcher in the room…I don't think I'd thought about actually…winning.

Because that's what this feels like. Like a victory.

And I start to frown, the smile slowly falling from my lips as I look around the room, see the suddenly smiling faces of my friends, of Giles, and realize the one person I most want to share it with isn't here.

I push my hands harder into the wooden table and push back, righting myself once more.

"Tell me what you know," I say, my voice a little softer now than it had been before, if not a little more hurried. I pretty much want nothing more now than to find out what we can from them and just get them to leave Sunnydale.

Once and for all.

Quinton, for his part, looks a little bit surprised at my abruptness. I'm not sure why.

I told him exactly how this was going to go. For a second I think he's about to argue with me, but then he etches forward across the table and slides a tall stack of books over, placing them in front of him and a little to the side.

"Well," he says, glancing at the books, his leather bound notebook, then back at me. "There's a lot to go through."

I look back and forth between him and the stack of books as well.

Then I shrug.

"Just pick a place and go from there."

Another labored pause as he glances behind him and up, taking in the still seated forms of my friends.

Like he doesn't want them to know what he's about to tell me. What it is they know.

The direction of his eyes doesn't go unnoticed by Giles, who steps a little closer to me, or Tara, apparently.

It's her voice I hear next.

"Maybe we should go," she whispers in a voice just loud enough for all of us to hear, directing the question non so subtly to Willow.

"I think that would be best."

Giles now, standing directly beside me, folding his arms up and over his chest and looking toward the loft with an expression on his face that reminds me of being back in high school. No nonsense, both authoritative and kind.

Willow, probably thinking the exact same thing I am, immediately scrambles to her feet, followed quickly by Tara. A somewhat confused Anya glances back and forth a couple times between the two standing witches, my Watcher and her boyfriend before I see her shrug and climb to her feet.

The only one left, very naturally, is Xander.

He's looking at me now with a look I can only think of as something between perplexion and betrayal.

So, probably too much to hope that they had somehow missed Lydia's casual vampire connection statement.

"Xander," Anya says, toeing his leg with her high heeled foot. "Let's go."

"This is just gonna be boring research stuff anyway," I say, forcing myself to smile casually. "I'll see you guys later."

I let my eyes travel back and forth between Willow's green and Xander's brown, widening them slightly for effect. And I hope they can see what it is I'm trying to say, the look I'm trying to give him.

That I can't get into this now.

That I'll explain everything when I can.

And I will. I want to. Now that I have the assurance that the Council won't be involving themselves with this any further, I don't see any real reason not to level with everybody else. Including Mom.

But first I have to figure out what it is the Council knows.

In the end, I'm not sure if I was able to convey to them exactly what I'd wanted to. But the four of them climb down from the loft and leave the Magic Box without further comment.

Giles locks the door behind them, offering me a small smile and a nod when he turns back around. I nod back, angling my body back to face the round research table. None of the other Watchers have moved from their positions semi-crowded around Travers, but he's pulled several books down off the stack and has spread them out around the table.

"I suppose beginning with the name of the phenomena is as good a place as any." Quinton reaches into his pocket and fishes out his reading glasses, sliding them on to his face and opening his big, thick notebook. I watch as he rifles through the first few pages until he lands somewhere near the middle, leaning over to read. "The Latin phrase we've seen used is ad eundem. Quite literally, 'to the same'. The other that we've seen is—"

"Lemme guess," I say, cutting him off and glancing toward Giles. We exchange a knowing look. "Two halves, one whole?"

When I look back toward Travers, he's eyeing me a little skeptically from over the rims of his glasses.

Like maybe I'm not quite the dumb blonde California girl he's always taken me for.

"Yes," he says simply.

I nod, turning and taking a few steps toward the the space in the wall where the dagger is still embedded.

I guess if there's a lot of information to get through, it might not hurt for me to just start asking questions.

I can think of a few things I want to know off the top of my head, including the conversation I'd had with Spike before coming here.

I turn back around.

"Has this ever happened before?" I ask, gesturing absently toward the stack of books across the table. I figure I don't need to specify much more.

It isn't Quinton that answers me this time.

"Once," Nigel speaks up, looking at me warily from his new place on the opposite end of the table. About as star away from me as he can get in the small space. "A couple hundred years ago, just before the turn of the 19th century."

Travers gives him a short nod of agreement before looking at me again. "The late 1700s."

Once. One time.

A Slayer and a vampire have only ever experienced this, what's happening between us, one other instance since the beginning of time. So I guess calling it rare is sort of a major understatement.

I pull by bottom lip into my mouth and nibble down on it lightly.

"Where?" I hear myself asking, but I don't know why.

I don't know why it matters.

Quinton glances back down at his notes.

It hasn't occurred to me until this very moment that he'd brought all of his notes, all of the books and source materials here tonight. To my "review".

Like he'd planned on sharing all of this with us regardless of the outcome.

Which only makes me think that I, that Spike, couldn't have been more right.

I watch him place his finger down about half way down the page, then turn to look back at me.

"Our records show the events occurred somewhere near Rome."

I nod, wondering why there's a niggling sense of familiarity about all of this that's trying to push its way forward.

"Okay."

"And?" Giles asks, his arms crossed once more over his chest. When no one makes an immediate move to answer him he gestures toward the table as well, sounding frustrated. "What happened?"

Quinton removes his glasses and sighs.

"The Slayer in question was killed."

My blood runs cold, my stomach twisting, dropping suddenly the way it might if I'd been on a roller coaster. It isn't what he's said, really. That a Slayer died, that she was killed…well, it's nothing new. No, it isn't what he's said, but how he's said it.

Like it's significant somehow.

Like it should mean something to me.

I frown, glancing back to Giles, who has an equally perplexed look on his face to the one I probably have on mine.

"Again I say, okay." I look back at Travers, shrugging, trying to ignore the cold feeling that hasn't gone away. "That's not really anything new. I mean…it's not like any of us have overly long shelf lives—"

He shakes his head, cutting me off.

"She was killed by the vampire she shared the connection with."

And it's like all the air has been forcibly pushed from my lungs.

Images from my…from Spike's nightmares flood my head, flickering and flashing like a slide show, burning themselves into my mind like a camera flash that's entirely too bright.

"Oh," I breathe, realizing how wide my eyes must be.

That I don't think I've blinked since Quinton had spoken a moment ago.

But none of that was real, I remind myself forcefully, repeating it over and over again. A mantra, fighting back against the memories.

That was a dream.

"…so, you can see why we might have been…concerned." Travers is saying as I shake my head, forcing myself to focus on him. Trying to hone in on the words he's saying now. "Why we wanted to ensure you had not chosen to complete the ritual."

I blink, shaking my head again. "Ritual?" I ask, my voice sounding too loud in my ears through the haze of the nightmare's assault to my senses.

Quinton nods, looking back at the page of notes in front of him. His glasses are back on now. "The, uh…sanguinem nexu." He glances back up at me. "Blood connection?"

I close my eyes. "The claim."

Travers clears his throat.

"That's…the more colloquial term for it, yes."

I'm assaulted with a fresh wave of images.

These are still from the nightmare, still from the kill, but from a very specific point. It's all there, right in front of me. As clear as if it were happening right now.

The gleam from the torch light, the sheen of sweat on my skin. Spike's muscles, rippling beneath my hands. My body tensing, fluttering around him, beneath him.

The savage slice of his fangs into my skin.

Draining my blood.

And the word. The whispered word just as my body grew cold.

"Mine."

My eyes fly open again, and I cross the space between me and the table, the books. Travers.

He looks startled by my sudden movements but doesn't flinch away from me this time.

Probably because I look wild eyed and frantic now, not confident and deadly like I had before.

"That's when it happened?" I ask urgently, my voice betraying just how badly I need him to say yes. How desperately I need the affirmation that what I'm thinking is true. IN my panic, I don't care, don't even think about what I might be giving away. "That's when…when he…I mean, when she…"

If he notices how frantic I am, if he wants to make a comment on it, he doesn't. Just nods and says, "Yes."

Every muscle in body releases at once, the tight coils in my stomach, the freezing cold that had been worming it's way through my chest vanishing.

I let myself slump down onto the upholstered bench to the let of Travers, leaning forward to drop my head into my hands.

Now that the panic is subsiding, things are sort of starting to make a weird kind of sense. Spike's nightmare about killing me, draining me dry in the middle of a claim.

This other Slayer and her vampire. That he killed her in the midst of their claim.

How worried Spike had been about me afterward. The incredibly, overwhelming relief he'd felt when I'd woken up. His intense desire to take care of me afterwards.

He'd even admitted it to me. That he'd taken a lot of my blood during the claim.

I find myself wondering now what exactly it had been that stopped him from taking it all.

I feel a hand on my back, and recognize it as being Giles. Not that it would be anyone else, but I can actually tell by the light pressure, the small circles he's rubbing.

Apparently, neither of us care a whole lot about giving up the extent to which the connection's been completed at this point. Too relieved, probably, that Spike and I somehow managed to avoid something so disastrous.

And he doesn't really even know the half of it.

And even with all the signs, the information I have now, I have to wonder…why? What would make one vampire murder his demon's intended mate while the other seemed to do everything possible to keep that from happening.

Was it just, like, a will power thing?

Spike may have be a lot of things, might have a lot of things, but will power…I'm not sure that's one of them. He doesn't usually let anything stand in the way of what it is he wants.

So he must have just wanted me more than he wanted my blood.

Still, I hear myself asking "Why?"

I keep my head down, eyes closed. I shake my head.

"Why did he kill her?"

There's a long pause, but since I'm not looking up, still trying to catch my breath, I have no idea what the hold up is.

Finally, someone speaks. It's Lydia.

"Why?" she asks, repeating the word a little like it's a completely ridiculous question.

So maybe they know even less about the connection than I do.

I force my eyes open and look up, pinning her with a hard look from across the table.

"Yeah, why?" I repeat, my voice harder now.

"Miss Summers," Travers begins, angling his body toward mine. "This…connection? It's primal. Demonic in nature. It's a primitive draw between the Slayer and her chosen vampire."

I freeze at that, frowning slightly.

Chosen vampire?

I don't have time to really think about the implications of that statement because Travers is still talking.

I try to focus on him again.

"But according to our research, it doesn't change the nature of either one. Not until it's been completed."

I feel like I'm listening but not really hearing him, the words all sort of being jumbled together as they leave his lips and force their way into my ears.

I shake my head to try and clear it further.

"What are you saying?" I ask, unconsciously starting to fidget, twisting my fingers in front of me on the table.

"He's saying," Giles begins, stepping into my field of vision, to the left. I meet his eyes with mine. "That while there may be certain…desires between the Slayer and vampire, they aren't much more than animal instinct."

Lust.

That white hot, burning lust I'd felt for him that first time. In the alley, behind the bronze. I'd known at the time how dangerous it was. Had vaguely recognized it, felt it. The blood lust and the raging need for him.

I'd known how very easily he could have killed me that night. Had consciously thought about it when he'd had his hands over my throat.

And I hadn't cared. Might have even let it happen.

God, I'd been playing with fire more than I'd even realized.

But if Spike had realized how easy it would have been, he hadn't acted on it. Hadn't even bitten me that night with anything other than his human teeth.

"The Slayer would still want to stake the vampire," Giles is saying now, and the way he's looking at me lets me know he's thinking the same thing I am. "And the vampire would still want to drain the Slayer."

Except Spike hadn't. He'd had two options, two different times, before the connection had been completed and he hadn't tried. Hadn't even come close.

And I hadn't, either.

I hadn't even wanted to hit him once all this started.

"That's what makes your situation so dangerous," Lydia pipes up again, stepping forward and tentatively setting her notebook down on the table.

I think I'm only half listening now, too busy trying to sort their information into what I know to be true of what we've experienced together.

"Well, not yours, perhaps," Quinton says breezily, correcting his female Watcher. I glance over at him and his lips are curved up in something that's almost a smile. "But not every Slayer would be fortunate enough to have a souled counterpart."

It starts to click together.

Chosen vampire. The Council being so sure it was Angel. Why they hadn't just gone to L.A. to stake him right off the bat, if this is what they knew had happened before.

His soul.

Our relationship history.

Had the just assumed he wouldn't hurt me, then?

"Okay, wait," I say, getting back up to my feet. My legs are still a little unsteady but I don't think I can stay sitting down anymore. "So you're saying that…the connection doesn't change the Slayer or the vampire's feelings for one other?" I ask, eyes scanning the room, finally landing back on Travers. "I should still be all with the wanting to stake this vamp?"

He seems amused by my outburst.

It's wierd.

I don't think I've ever seen Quinton Travers give anyone a genuine smile before.

"Theoretically, yes." He nods thoughtfully. "Although you and your Angel do have history together that would suggest your situation is a little different."

So I'd been right. One point for me.

"So, because…" I turn to cast a poignant glance at Giles, eyebrows raised, "Angel and I already had…feelings for each other—"

"Those would probably just be… magnified, if you will." He gestures toward the books on the table one last time. "To assist in the completion."

It has nothing to do with the connection. Nothing to do with the claim.

I had to have had feelings for Spike already. And he must have had them for me, too. I had to have known, somehow, that he was…for me. Had probable always known that somewhere in the back of my mind. Why we'd never been able to finish what he'd started by coming here all those years ago.

Apparently, my demon had chosen him. His had chosen me, too.

But he hadn't killed me in that alley way, hadn't torn my throat in my bedroom. Hadn't drained my blood in his crypt when he'd had the chance, when his very nature had demanded it, because of something bigger. Bigger than any of the Latin phrases I've heard tossed around for the past two weeks.

He hadn't hurt me because he loves me. Is in love with me.

It's what I'd felt today when he'd pulled me into his arms. When he'd kissed me. The simple, sweet kiss that I'd known in that deep place had nothing to do with the connection at all.

Spike had kissed me.

Me. Buffy.

Not the Slayer. True, we're connected. Our demons are connected. Had chosen one another. They're claimed. Bonded together in blood. To become the same. To be the two halves one whole.

But he loves me.

"What would happen?" I find myself asking now, looking back and forth between Travers and Giles. Asking them both the same question, known that neither of them probably have the answer. "What would happen if we were to complete the connection?"

I widen my eyes a little as I look at Giles as if to say what's going to happen now that we already have?

"That's our primary concern, Buffy," Quinton answers me softly, once again removing his reading glasses. "We don't know, and we have no real way of finding out."

I look at Giles one more time, who offers me a small shrug as if it say exactly what it is I'm thinking.

I guess we're flying blind.

"Is that it?" I ask, putting my hands on my hips.

Quinton nods. "That's the extent of the information we've found so far." I watch as he pushed himself to his feet, closing the leather bound notebook as he does. He turns toward my Watcher. "We'll leave the books here with you, Giles." He smirks a little as he reaches down and pulls his coat off the back of the chair. "Maybe you can find something else that we couldn't."

That mildly condescending tone is back in his voice, but I'm not really listening anymore.

I'm already thinking about getting out of here, going back to Spike's crypt, back to my vampire.

I feel my lips curve up involuntarily at the thought, my cheeks flushing warm at the sweet sounding possessiveness of it. My vampire.

Its what he is.

Mine.

I watch the rest of the Watchers gather their things, picking up various notebooks and pens that none of them actually got to use. They're speaking, murmuring to one another, some ofn them darting nervous glances my way, but I hardly notice.

I'm just waiting for them to leave so I can go tell Spike about what I've found out tonight.

Which isn't a whole lot, I guess.

But at the same time it's kind of everything.

He's reading when I walk in.

At least, I assume that's what he's doing, since he's sitting in the armchair. Leaning slightly toward the candles there, his back to me, head bent down.

His platinum curls have been gelled back in place.

And he jumps slightly when I push the door open, dropping whatever it is he's looking at to the floor with a muffled thud.

He whips his head around to look at me, one eyebrow raised expectantly. Not at all surprised to see me standing there, but rather like he's been waiting longer for me than he'd wanted to.

Like I'm late.

But that increasingly familiar warmth is there already. The moment I lock eyes with him, I feel it. And it's unmistakeable.

"Well," he says, not bothering to pick up whatever it is he's dropped, pushing himself lithely up to his feet and stepping around the chair as I descend the tiny set of stairs. "How'd it go?"

I cross the small space between us, only faintly hearing the soft click of my boots across the stone, only halfway taking in the look in his eyes as he watches me approach.

I don't say anything.

Don't wait for him to say anything else, either.

I reach for him almost blindly, placing my hands on either side of his face and pulling his lips down to mine.

I kiss him the same way he'd kissed me earlier. Soft, full. Not heated at all, but tender.

I let my lips move against his in a gentle rhythm, inhaling deeply as I brush my thumbs slowly, back and forth, across the angles of his cheek bones.

And even though it's a gentle kiss, it feels more passionate than almost any other we've had because of all the things I'm trying so hard to say with it.

Gratitude. Ownership. Need.

A different kind of need than the one I'd felt behind The Bronze, a need I don't recognize, don't think I've ever felt before.

And love.

That's what it is. That same unmistakeable, all encompassing warmth flowing between us now.

It's there, too.

After what feels like forever I pull back a little, lean in to press one more quick kiss to Spike's lips, then back out again. Not too far, but enough that I can see his eyes when I look up at him through my lashes.

"That good, huh?" He asks softly, searching my face with bright, awed eyes.

I nod, letting my hands slip from his cheeks, down to the silky material of the black button down shirt he's wearing.

His lips curve up a little, and he he tilts his head to the side. "Stand up to those sorry sods, did you?"

I nibble on the inner part of my bottom lip and glance down, fingers playing absently with the topmost button on his shirt, up near the collar where he's left it undone.

"Sent 'em packing," I say lightly, looking back up into his face.

He lifts one of his hands up, twisting a couple strands of my hair around his fingers and brushing it backward, off my shoulder.

"That's my girl."

I wonder if he knows how true that really is. In light of what I've just found out, it seems to be even more so now somehow.

I've never felt so much like I belong to someone as I do with Spike. And knowing what I do now, that I somehow chose him for myself…that a part of me probably always knew this might be a possibility.

"Don't you wanna know what I found out?" I ask, pulling a little further away from him but letting his hands catch me around the waist.

"Is it real?"

I don't ask him to explain what he means. Don't need to.

So I just reach back up, cupping the smooth, cool skin of his face in my right hand, and I nod.

He melts into me but doesn't say anything, opting instead to turn his head to the side and press a kiss to the palm of my hand.

We've done that thing again. Said a lot without really saying anything at all. The words are there, though. Just on the tip of my tongue.

It wouldn't take a big push for me to say them.

In the end, I'm not sure what it is that stops me. Maybe it's just not the right time. Or maybe it's knowing that he already knows. That he has to.

I don't know how long we stand like this. Eventually he brings his left hand up and covers the back of mine, pressing it more firmly against him. His other hand traces tiny little patterns that I don't think mean anything at all into the denim of my jeans on the outside of my thigh.

"So," he murmurs after a little while, turning his head slightly toward me, his lips still halfway pressed to my skin. "Find out anythin' else?"

"Not much," I tell him honestly, letting out a small sigh when he pulls his face away fro my hand. "And what I did find out isn't really of the overly useful variety."

Spike frowns, tilting his head to the side, letting his fingers close around my hand and bring it back down between us.

"Feel like sharin'?" He starts to tug on my hand, stepping further back into the crypt, closer to the chair he'd just vacated.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek.

Now that I'm here, now that there's this knowledge floating around between us...that all these feelings we're having, the feelings we probably started having a long time ago, are in fact real and are in no way, shape or form caused by our connection...I don't know if I want to tell him about the others. About what happened to that Slayer.

For some reason, I have this strong feeling that he's going to go all noble and get all quiet and start beating himself over those dreams. Those old fantasies of his.

And I really don't want to see that, to feel him do that to himself. Not now.

On the other hand, doesn't he deserve to know what I know? What the Council found out about the last connected pair this happened to. And that...we're different?

That this isn't some luck of the draw, totally random, eeny meeny miny moe fluke?

I _chose_ him.

"You were supposed to kill me," I hear myself say, realizing even as the words escape that I probably could have worded it a little better as I let him pull me by the hand over toward the armchair.

"Mmm," Spike murmurs, shaking his head. He sits down on the side of the chair's armrest and tugs me gently forward to stand between his knees. " _Technically_ you were supposed to kill me, pet."

I sigh, the sound a little shaky.

"No," I murmur, pulling my hand back, but not before he manages to bring it to his lips and press one more kiss to my knuckles. "I mean during the claim. Apparently, you were...well, _supposed to_ isn't exactly the right-"

There's a sudden chill in my gut, cutting me off. I focus in on Spike's face immediately and I can see it in his eyes. They've gone very wide.

He's thinking the same thing I had when Travers had first told me. Putting it all together the same way.

He frowns, brow furrowing. "How do you—"

I decide not to mention the dream again, saying simply "Travers told me that's what happened before."

I watch Spike's eyes widen again as he looks up at me.

"So this _has_ happened before," he murmurs, slowly turning his face away from mine. The muscle in his jaw clenches..

"Only once," I say quietly, trying to read the expression on his face. It's hard, and I can tell he's fighting to keep it neutral. I can tell he's fighting to keep everything neutral. "Way back in the day."

Spike nods slowly, his eyes focused somewhere off to my left. He purses his lips. "And that vampire…"

"Killed that Slayer," I finish for him, unconsciously stepping closer to him, wedging myself further between his legs. I nod. "Yeah."

His expression doesn't change, but he doesn't look all that surprised. I do feel the sudden flash of the pain I'd been expecting ripple down my spine as he thinks it over, though.

 _Couldn't hide that one from me, could ya?_

I reach forward and hook my fingers under the curve of his jaw, forcing his face back to mine. Making him look at me.

This is the important part.

"But _you_ didn't," I remind him, my voice firm.

His voice is soft when he speaks, and I can see how hard it is for him to look at me.

"I wanted to," he whispers.

I stare at him with wide eyes, my hand still gripping his jaw, the other hanging limply at my side.

His words frighten me.

If I said they didn't, it would be a lie. And he can feel that fear, has to, because his hand is reach for my free hand before I can blink, entwining my fingers with his as he continues on.

"Not, not _then_ ," he clarifies, clearly meaning the night of the claim. Maybe even meaning the couple times before that. I'm not sure. "But at first. When I first realized…" He trails off, looking away from me. His jaw tics again. I almost say something, almost speak up and tell him it's okay, that I don't need to know.

But I'm getting the feeling now like he needs to say it.

So I don't.

"God, I wanted to...or I…" He looks back at me again, azure eyes shining. "I wanted it to stop."

The fear I'd felt a moment ago has faded away, replaced with a num sort of understanding. He'd wanted to kill me. He'd wanted the feelings that were developing for me to stop.

Well, yeah. Of course he had.

So had I.

I'd gone so far as to cast a spell to get the dreams, the feelings I thought they were causing, to stop.

So even though it makes me a little sick to my stomach to bring it up, to think about what might have happened...what would have happened if my demon had chosen anyone but Spike's…I tell him.

"You could have. I don't...I'm not sure I would have stopped you." Not sure I would have been capable to, even if I'd wanted to. I'm not telling him anything he doesn't already know. Hasn't already seen. "I gave you more than one chance, even."

Spike shakes his head, squeezing the hand he has wrapped up in his tightly. When he looks up at me now, I see that perfect, teasing smirk ghosting the corner of his mouth. "Never could bloody do it."

And I know he isn't just talking about recently.

I nod, stepping further into him still. I let go of his jaw and let my hand come to rest on the curve of his shoulder, ghosting gently over the place where my mark should be.

"Know why?" I ask softly, pressing the heel of my hand into the spot, feeling the shooting wave of pleasure roll over me at the same time as I watch Spike's lashes flutter, his nostrils flare.

"Mmm, no," he purrs, opening his eyes again. They're dark now. "Why?"

 _Now_ , I decide. For some reason, now feels like the right time.

"Because you love me."

His eyes widen slightly and he leans back a little ways, tilting his head up so he can see me better.

"That right?"

I nod.

Spike's lips twitch just a little and he pushes himself back up to his feet, effectively pinning my body directly against his when he does. I feel his hands on my hips, sliding slowly, gently around to my waist until his forearms are pressing into the small of my back.

His eyes are burning into mine, his voice very low, almost hesitant when he asks me.

"And you're gonna love me?"

He phrases it like a question, and it bothers me. It shouldn't be one. Not after what I told him before I'd left today. Not after what I'd tried to tell him with that kiss.

"I am," I say, then pause, taking a moment to let it sink in. Letting myself fully grasp, understand, what it is I'm about to say. Who it is I'm saying it to.

And why.

I lean into him, giving in to the feel of his arms wrapped around me, the pressure of his chest against mine. Turn my head to the side so I can press my cheek against the silky fabric of his shirt, inhaling deeply.

That cool, heady scent that is so perfectly Spike filling my senses. It's funny, I've never really noticed. His scent is cold. The minty tinge to the cigarette smoke, the astringent flavor of whiskey, the beat up leather always smelling a little like it's been whipped by a winter wind no matter how hot it is outside.

And he told me I smell like vanilla. Vanilla is warm.

It probably doesn't mean anything, but it's what I'm thinking about when I whisper, "I do."

His arms tighten around me, and again, he doesn't say anything. But I feel his lips at the crown of my head, his breath ruffling through my hair.

It strikes me as a little ironic, too. That I don't think I've never felt safer than I do right now. Standing in this crypt, in the dead center of a cemetery, wrapped in the arms of the vampire who'd once made it his sole mission in unlife to dance on my grave.

I guess he literally met his match in me.

"Stay with me tonight," Spike whispers after a while, his fingers wrapping around me, digging gently into my sides.

I sigh, nuzzling my cheek further into him, tucking my head more firmly beneath his chin.

"I should go home," I say, reluctantly pressing my hand flat against his chest and pushing myself back, away from him, so I can look into his face. "I sort of left in a hurry earlier. Mom and Dawn probably wanna know how the review that wasn't ended up."

"Oh, right," he says it like he agrees, but his arms don't loosen around me. And he's pouting. Visibly pouting. "Should let them know the good news."

"Yep." I pop the 'p', putting some pressure on his arms, stepping a little further away from him. "So we should go before they go to bed."

His eyes lighten, the grip on my waist lessening a little as he tilts his head to the side. "We?"

I nod, fixing him with a meaningful look. A fresh wave of warmth covers me, hangs almost palpably in the space between us.

"Figure it's sort of a package deal."


	31. Chapter 30

"What's going on?" I ask, casting a sideways glance to the vampire walking beside me. The same vampire I keep getting stomach churning waves of anxiety from. Every few feet or so, I get another twist.

"Hmm?" Spike hums around the unlit cigarette he's just placed between his lips. I watch him pull his lighter out, strike it, inhale deeply until the end blazes to life. It casts a soft red glow over the edge of his cheek, deepening the shadows below his eyes.

He drops the lighter back into his pocket and I sigh, my lips curving slightly.

"That's your third cigarette in ten minutes," I quip lightly, turning back around to face forward. He's been steadily smoking since we left his crypt, talking to me about lots of mundane things as we've walked. His voice light, casual.

But he can't keep me from feeling those little waves of anxiety.

Which I just got a fresh wave of, and we're just about to turn the corner onto Revello Drive.

Spike reaches up and plucks the cigarette from his lips, smirking as he exhales a long stream of smoke in the direction away from me, then glancing back my way.

"Worried about my lungs, are you?"

I roll my eyes, a smirk forming on my own lips as I shake my head.

"No," I say, drawing the word out. I glance at Spike again. "Just wondering why you're so nervous."

His expression darkens, stormy eyes narrowing slightly on me as he reaches up and places the smoking cigarette back between his lips.

"'M not nervous," he says lowly, leaning in closer to me.

I nod, raising both my eyebrows. "Tell that to the knots twisting up my stomach."

A low growl rumbles to me from somewhere back in Spike's throat. It's not real, there's not a single ounce of anger coming off him now. And I'm sure he hadn't meant for it to be, but it's an inherently sensual sound to my ears.

A little thrill shoots down my spine.

"'S not nerves, Slayer." His shoulder lightly brushes against mine, both of us consciously slowing our walk. He shrugs, rolling his shoulders back and looking forward. His eyes narrow on the glowing porch light of my house, and one more subtle ping of uneasiness flows between us. "Don't bloody get nervous."

I smirk at him, shifting my eyes sideways, but the closer we get to the house the more difficult it is for me to determine whether the knots in my stomach are still his, or if some might be mine.

"Sure you don't." I push my shoulder a little firmer into his, almost unaware of how I'm suddenly seeking physical contact with him.

Spike leans into me too, returning the light pressure. It moves a little when he inhales and exhales one final time, the smoke curling in one long tendril up into the night sky, before he pulls the cigarette out of his mouth. He tosses it down to the ground, pausing just long enough to stamp it out.

Then he falls back into step with me, reaching around and placing one hand on the small of my back, leaning over to press his lips to my temple. My eyes close automatically.

"That's enough cheek from you," he murmurs against my hair, like he's telling me a secret, before pulling away again.

I miss the feel of his hand against me instantly.

We're only about five houses down from home now.

I sigh, focusing my eyes forward one more time.

He hasn't said it, won't admit to it, but I know what it is I'm feeling from him. And I think I know why.

"What exactly do you think's going to happen?" I ask him lightly.

Beside me, he scoffs, drawing my eyes back to him.

He staring at me with wide eyes, his scarred eyebrow raised high.

"Claimed your mum's daughter, pet," he murmurs, watching me intently. He tilts his head to the side as we walk. "You think she's gonna be _happy_ about that?"

I can hear it in his voice, what he thinks the answer to that question is. Like it's an obvious answer. I might have even agreed with him if I hadn't had that moment with Mom last night. She already seemed to know...something. That there was something bigger going on between Spike and I.

She hadn't seemed upset, then. Hadn't even seemed surprised.

So yeah, the whole connection, claim, being together for at least the rest of my natural life is pretty big when it comes to deals...Mom might not be thrilled by the idea. At least not initially.

But it's not like he's going to grab a wooden spoon and get with the staking.

In fact, at this point, I wouldn't be all that shocked if she was verging on happy about it.

Not that that seems to be something my vampire is considering based on the new surge of anxiousness tingling through my fingertips.

"Mom already likes you, Spike," I tell him softly, dropping all of the teasing I'd had in my voice a moment ago. I reach my right hand out, hooking my index finger around his ring and pinky fingers, running my thumb slowly down the outside of his hand soothingly. The air between us lightens considerably and he turns to look down into my face.

I offer him a small, genuine smile.

Then I shrug, turning back to face forward.

"And Dawn pretty much already knows everything, anyway."

Spike's hand instinctively tenses, his fingers curling tightly around mine. He tugs on my hand, pulling me closer to him, bringing us both to a stop.

We're only a house and a half away now.

"Everythin'?" He asks, lowering his voice poignantly.

I frown, shaking my head. It's obvious that he thinks I should already know what he's saying to me. But when it's clear that I don't, he rolls his eyes then focuses back on me.

His eyebrows shoot up as he leans in closer to me.

 _Oh_.

Oh, right.

I stare back at him, eyes widening as I shake my head.

"Not _everything_ ," I say quickly, casting a quick cursory glance over to the bright lights of my front porch. "But she knows about the connection. And the claim." I turn my eyes back to Spike, running my thumb over the smooth skin on the back of his hand again. "Not that we've...completed it." His hand squeezes mine again. "But that we were headed that way."

I watch as Spike nods, turning his own eyes over to look toward my house. They narrow slightly.

He inhales deeply, letting the air out slowly through his nose.

His voice is lighter, more resigned, less anxious when he finally speaks again.

"Knew we weren't just goin' to tell 'em about the Council."

"And yet you agreed to come with me," I say, turning back around to start walking again.

I tug his hand, pulling on it to make him walk with me when I do.

He chuckles, slipping in beside me again. '"Course I did."

I'm starting to realize how true little statements like this are. Spike knew we why we were really coming to talk to Mom. Knew it was something he wasn't really wanting to do, that it could be a potentially...less than pleasant situation for him.

But he'd come with me anyway. Of course he had.

Something about Spike I've always known, that a part of me had always had a grudging respect for. How fiercely loyal he is.

How wholly committed to those he chooses to care about.

Even without the claim. I don't think there's much he wouldn't do with me, _for_ me, if I asked him to.

"I just want Mom to know about you," I whisper, turning with him down the cement walkway leading up to my front door. "About us."

Wordlessly, he lifts my hand and places his lips softly to the skin over the side of my thumb before letting go completely, allowing me to ascend the porch steps in front of him.

"You gonna tell _her_ everything?" He asks from behind me, practically purring. He waggles his eyebrows suggestively when I turn to look at him.

It's my turn to scoff, my own eyebrow raised. "Are you kidding?"

We both pause for a minute. Standing on my well lit front porch, facing each other in front of the door. He watches me carefully for a moment, cocking his head to the side. His voice drops low, a little more serious when he asks "What are you gonna tell her, luv?"

" _We_ ," I say, emphasizing the word, watching as his eyes seem to grow a shade darker in the porch lights. "Are going to tell her the truth."

He stands up a little straighter, turning his body to look straight on at the front door.

"Right then."

I can't resist the urge to smile at the shifting expressions on his face, his cheeks hollowed out, lips pursing.

"Ready?" I ask.

Spike lets out a short, quiet laugh and shifts his eyes back toward me, keeping his head facing forward. "Does it matter?"

I shake my head, stepping around him, slipping in between his body and the door and placing my hand on the door handle. I turn to look at him over my shoulder, smirking.

"Nope."

He nods, looking like that's about exactly the answer he'd been expecting.

"Thought as much," he murmurs, and I laugh a little as I push open the front door and we step inside.

Mom and Dawn are in the kitchen.

Dawn sitting at one of the island counter stools. Mom standing at the stove. She has her favorite canister of cocoa out on the counter beside her, the big tea kettle just starting to steam when we walk into the room.

"Oh good, Buffy," Mom says immediately, grinning at me, "you're home. Dawn and I were just about to-" She freezes, tilting her head to the side when she finally seems to notice the peroxided vampire standing behind me.

Her eyes widen visibly.

"Spike." She's still smiling, but now she looks like she definitely knows something's up. "This is a nice surprise."

There's no sarcasm in her voice at all. She's looking at my vampire with a bright, open expression, the smile on her face is completely genuine.

I'm also kind of getting that weird vibe. The one you get when you walk into a room and just _know_ people were talking about you right before you came in.

I frown slightly, looking over toward Dawn. She's smiling too, a wide, falsely innocent one.

I raise my eyebrow at her.

"Joyce," Spike says softly from behind me, and I turn in time to see him nodding politely in Mom's direction. "Nice to see you." He pauses briefly, casting a quick glance at me before looking back to Mom. He smiles at her. "You look great."

I watch the color in my mom's cheeks rise, her smile widening as she looks back down toward the kettle. And I have to resist the urge to turn around and wrap my arms around the vampire behind me.

Hopefully he can feel how happy this small, simple exchange has made me.

"Do you have a minute?" I ask, directing the question to both my mom and my sister. I step a little further into the kitchen, feeling Spike step in behind me. "We need to talk to you."

A hush falls over the room.

"Oh?" Mom asks, glancing back and forth between the two of us. "What about?"

But it kind of already seems like she knows why we're here. I cast another glance at Dawn, and she's grinning at me from ear to ear.

"Us," I say, making a face at my sister before turning back toward Mom, angling my body so that I'm standing next to Spike rather than right in front of him. "About...us."

There's almost no surprise on Mom's face when I say it.

I guess _I_ shouldn't be too surprised, considering our brief talk yesterday.

Almost on cue, the tea kettle starts whistling, breaking the silence that had settled momentarily between the four of us. Mom reaches for it immediately, pulling it off the burner and placing it on the back of the stovetop.

"Sure, sweetie. Can I get you anything first?" Mom asks, turning her back on me and opening one of the cabinets, reaching up to pull down two mugs. "Dawn and I were just about to make some hot cocoa." She reaches for a third, pulling it down off the shelf and turning back to lock eyes with the vampire beside me. "Spike?"

He shakes his head, smiling politely once again. "No, thank you Joyce."

"Are you sure?" she asks him one more time, still holding the mug in both her hands. "We have more than enough hot water-"

"Spike and Buffy are connected." Dawn's voice cuts through the kitchen, cutting Mom off mid-sentence, making all three pairs of our eyes whip toward her. Mom's frozen over by her side of the counter. Spike's muscles are all tensed behind me.

"Dawn," I say tersely, turning my body around to glare at her. She just looks back at me, folding her arms up over her chest. Looking completely unapologetic and way too much like she knows it all.

"Oh, relax," she says, rolling her eyes. "We all know why you're here."

"You do?" I ask skeptically, eyebrows raised, turning my eyes back toward Mom.

She has that same almost guilty expression on her face that she had last night. The sheepish smile as she looks back at me now.

"I'd still like to hear you explain it," she says gently, her eyes bright. She turns and sets the mug down, turning around and leaning her back against the edge of the counter.

"Okay," I say slowly, shifting my eyes one more time over to Spike beside me. He gives me a short, encouraging nod. I turn back to look at Mom. "We have a connection between us."

Spike steps in, adding quickly, "Well, between our demons."

I smile at him.

"Right," I agree, gesturing absently with my hands. "And I sort of started the ball rolling when I drank Dracula's blood."

Mom's eyes widen comically. Dawn gasps. Beside me, a low growl reaches my ears, a sharp surge of possessive jealousy flooding my chest as soon as the words leave my lips.

 _Oops._

Probably not the most tactful way to explain our situation, but the words just sort of fell out before I could stop them.

Mom places both of her hands on the counter, on either side of her, leaning her weight back. She stares at me, closing her eyes for a minute before opening them again.

"You...what?" She asks, her voice pitching higher.

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek.

Spike clears his throat, drawing my eyes back to his. His eyes are darker now than they had been a moment ago. That same jealousy rolling off him, down my back.

"I'm told it wasn't exactly her choice," he says, his voice low.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes at him. My cheeks burn hot with irritation.

This is not the time for more jealous vampire crap.

"It _wasn't_ ," I say adamantly, raising my eyebrows at him, waiting for the new surge to pass before I turn back to Mom. "But I guess when I drank it I started something...with Spike. The thing inside me, Mom...the thing that makes me the Slayer?" She nods in understanding, her eyes searching mine, scanning my face as I continue. "Apparently it's the same sort of demon that makes a vampire a vampire. And when I drank Dracula's blood, I awakened that part of me." I turn back to the bleached blonde beside me, the frustration from a moment ago fading away when I meet his eyes now. "And it chose Spike to...connect to."

Spike visibly softens as well, the hard lines around his lips curving slightly, brow smoothing.

"And mine chose Buffy's," he says softly, stepping a little closer to me.

It feels like we do this sort of thing without knowing, without even realizing it. Before we even know it we're standing so close together that I have to tilt my head back to look up into his face. My eyes searching his, traveling down the sharp planes of his cheeks, down toward his lips.

The spell is broken when Dawn giggles, her voice light, cutting through the space between us. We snap out of it, almost jumping away from one another.

I clear my throat.

"Anyway," I say, turning to face Mom again. I shake my head to clear it further. "The connection had three parts to it. Emotional, physical and-"

Spike's voice cuts in again. "Blood."

Mom's eyes shoot back to him.

"Blood?" She repeats the word like a question, looking back toward me. Her brow furrows like she doesn't understand.

I don't blame her.

Kind of hard for me to understand, and I'm the one who had to do it.

"Umm, in order to complete the...connection, we had to finish something that's called a claim." I glance toward Spike, waiting for confirmation from him in the form of a nod of his head, a shift in his features, before continuing on. "Sort of a really strong blood bond."

Somehow I don't think right now is a great time to bring up the whole marriage comparison.

"Wait," Dawn says, pushing herself down off the stool, frowning at me. She glances over my shoulder, fixing her eyes on Spike, then back to me. "Did you do that part already?"

I nod, feeling a little sheepish, somehow having forgotten that I still hadn't told her that part of the story.

She leans away from me, putting both hands on her hips. "When?"

I unconsciously step backward at the same time as Spike steps up. I can feel him there behind me, close to me but not quite touching. I turn to glance at him over my shoulder.

"The other night," I say softly, letting the words leave my lips on an exhale as I turn back toward Dawn. "Before the Council showed up."

She makes a little squeaky sound, high pitched, like she can't believe she's just hearing about this now.

"And you didn't _tell_ me?" she asks, that same high pitched squeak. I wince, shrinking away from her.

"Sorry, Dawnie," I tell her, offering her a small smile. "Giles thought we should keep it to ourselves, at least until the Council was gone." I clear my throat, shrugging. "Which, hey, they are."

"Okay," Mom interjects, drawing my eyes back to hers. She's no longer leaning against the counter, but standing straight up, one hand on the side of her head and the other gesturing out somewhere in front of her. "Hold on a minute. Let me see if I have this straight."

I watch her as she lowers her hand away from her head, stepping closer to us.

"Buffy," she points at me, "you drank a vampire's blood and that...somehow connected you to Spike." She looks at me, waiting for me to acknowledge her with a yes or a no. Both Spike and I nod at the same time.

"Alright," she says slowly, crossing her arms over her chest. "There were three phases of this _connection_ , and the last of which was some sort of...blood ritual?"

She doesn't really look freaked out. She definitely doesn't sound freaked.

But that doesn't necessarily mean she isn't.

I glance back to Spike. He isn't looking at me, though. His eyes are glued to Mom.

"It's the Cliff's Notes version," He says, nodding. "But 's about right."

Mom keeps her eyes on his, nodding slowly. She glances down at the ground and takes another step closer to us. "Okay." She looks back up. "And in order to complete this...connection, you had to _bite_ Buffy?"

She points between us, first to Spike, and then to me.

I freeze. So does Spike.

I don't think I'd counted on her figuring that much out. Or I hadn't thought about what it would mean if she did.

Or I just hadn't cared.

I watch the panic set in, crossing over Spike's features, his eyes widening slightly just as the anxiety rushes down and sets up camp in my stomach.

I'm sure this is the exact moment he'd been hoping to avoid.

"I…" He begins haltingly, never taking his eyes off Mom. "Uh, well…" He sighs. "Yeah. I did. But," and another poignant pause, putting his hands out in front of him, "to be fair, she bit me too."

Mom turns slowly back to face me, her eyebrows raised high. I make a face at Spike, wrinkling my nose up, then look back at her.

"It wasn't as weird as it sounds."

From over to my left, Dawn chuckles loudly. "Sure it wasn't."

This earns her a glare from both me and Spike. She puts her hands up, still grinning at us, but backs away slightly.

It's very quiet for a long time. Mom switches from looking at me, over to Spike, down at the ground thoughtfully, then back to me again. When she finally does decide to speak again, the question she asks isn't the one I expect at all.

Nothing about the connection. What it means. Nothing more about the claim, or the bite.

"So you two are...together?"

So casual, super simple. She could literally be talking to anyone, not her vampire Slayer and her chosen demon.

"T-together?" I ask, stammering over the too casual word, glancing toward Spike.

I'm not asking because I don't understand what she's meant, just that I'm trying to figure why that, of all questions, is the one she's decided to ask.

"You know," Dawn pipes up, stepping forward, leaning her elbows onto the island counter. She puts her head in her hands, tilts her head to the side. "Boyfriend and girlfriend?"

 _Boyfriend and girlfriend._

"Uh…" Spike murmurs, raising his hand up to cup the back of his neck. He looks at me. "Well…"

I bite down on my lip.

"I mean," I begin slowly, my eyes still on Spike's, searching them. "That's one way of...saying it."

My vampire blanches, brow furrowing as he shifts back away from me. "It is?"

I frown, my eyes narrowing. "Well, _yeah_."

"Oh my God!" Dawn again, laughing out loud. We all turn back to look at her again. She stares at me, then over to Spike. "Have you guys, like, _not_ talked about this yet?"

I fold my arms over my chest, shifting sheepishly from foot to foot. I focus down on the ground. "Not exactly."

"Been a lot goin' on," Spike agrees, his voice low.

"Well," Mom says, a hint of laughter in her voice. Whether it's at me, or at Spike, or at the entire ridiculous situation we've gotten ourselves into...I'm not sure. She's smiling softly when I look at her again. "I'm going to go to bed. I have a lot to...think about." She glances at Spike, and I swear, could swear, that she tosses him a very quick wink as she moves passed him. She reaches out and squeezes my forearm gently when she gets to me.

She drops her voice down low as she murmurs near my ear, "Sounds like you could use some time to talk."

I frown, completely confused.

This can't be it. There's no way she doesn't have more questions than this.

"Mom-" I start to ask her what the deal is, but she doesn't give me the chance.

She turns away from me, back to my vampire, her voice back to normal volume now. "Will you be staying here tonight, Spike?"

 _What?_

His azure eyes fly open, eyebrows raised sky high as he looks down at my mom.

"Oh. I...I don't…" he trails off, swallowing hard. I don't think I've ever seen him look this nervous. "I mean, that's up to Buffy." I'm not sure what kind of face Mom gives him then, but he back pedals instantly, gesturing toward her. "Or you. Up to you." His eyes shoot over Mom's shoulder to find mine, widening slightly. "Little help, pet?"

"Maybe?" I say quickly, jumping in, stepping around Mom to place myself in her line of sight. When she gives me a look like she doesn't believe my weak willed "Maybe" for a second, I amend to a more certain sounding "Probably."

She smiles at me.

"Well I'll leave an extra set of sheets out of the linen closet for you," she pauses for a brief second, "just in case."

I'm still not sure what it is that's happening.

"Mom, you don't need to do that," I insist, shaking my head. "Really, it's fine-"

She just shakes her head, quieting me with a gentle smile.

To Spike. "If you do have cocoa, just put the mugs in the sink when you're done?" Then over to me. "I'll see you two in the morning."

I watch as she turns away from us, stepping around me and moving toward the door that leads into the dining room. Once she passes us, Spike and I exchange a look.

"Yeah," Dawn says, drawing the word out and dropping her voice down low as she steps up beside me. "See you two in the morning."

I watch them both leave the kitchen, disappear around the edge of the dining room, their giggling and softly muffled whispers reaching me as I listen for their footsteps on the stairs.

And then I turn around and lean forward onto the island countertop, propping my elbows up and covering my face with my hands.

"What do you think just happened here?" I ask, the words slightly muffled by the palms of my hands.

Spike surprises me by laughing. Not chuckling. Not a low, soft rumble. But a laugh. An honest to goodness laugh. I groan again, digging the palms of my hands harder into my eyes.

"What's the matter, luv?" He asks from behind me, the hint of laughter still in his voice. "Think that went fairly well." He pauses thoughtfully, and I can just picture the wry smile on his face even though I can't see him. "All things considered."

I shake my head, taking a deep breath in and releasing it slowly. I move my hands up so they're pressed into my forehead now.

"We're lucky Mom likes you," I mutter, torn between feeling grateful that all things considered, it had seemed to go pretty well, and being confused for why exactly it had gone so well.

I'll be having a talk with Dawn about all this. Soon.

I feel Spike come up behind me. Feel him step up closer to me, can smell his scent as he leans down toward my ear.

"Not lucky," he murmurs, cool breath tickling my ear, sending a tiny loose piece of my hair fluttering. "Seems to me," he presses his hands onto the counter top on either side of me, lightly boxing me in, "all the Summers women like me."

I can't help the tiny, breathless laugh that escapes my lips now, the shaking of my shoulders gently brushing against Spike's arms. He chuckles too, sending more stray pieces of my hair to tickle my neck.

"Does sorta seem that way," I agree, dropping my hands away from my face and turning to glance at him over my shoulder. His eyes are bright, light blue, shining warmly back at me. The tiny creases in the corners of his eyes make them look like they're sparkling.

And there's still that sweet, soft awe in them that I've been seeing off and on all night. Ever since I told him how I feel, back in his crypt.

I doubt I'll ever get used to seeing him look at me like this.

"I wonder why that is," I murmur, the corners of my lips curving up slightly.

Spike's lips curve more fully into a smile, bringing his hands up to my shoulders and turning me around to face him. His fingers curve around my upper arms firmly, a little possessively, and I have to wonder if this is still a small remnant from bringing up the Dracula thing earlier.

He tilts his head to the side, and I find myself stepping closer to him.

"Somethin' to do with my devilish charm and my classic good looks, I'd imagine," he says offhandedly, curling his tongue behind his teeth, a hint of that same too cocky arrogance in his voice that used to drive me up the walls.

All it does now is make me all tingly.

And I know that he's a little bit right, anyway. He's always been infuriatingly handsome, more charming than I ever thought he had a right to be. When he'd try to be. Even then, charming maybe isn't even the right word. Charismatic. Magnetic.

That's what it was. Even at his most obnoxious, he was always so damn _fascinating_ to me.

And now that I've seen the other side of that. Been on the receiving end of that incredibly loyalty, total and immediate...devotion. It just reminds me that nothing is ever halfway with him.

It's what I'm thinking about when I reach up, brushing a single, unruly platinum curl back from his forehead and tell him, "I think there's more to it than that."

I meet his eyes and watch as he tilts his head to the side, eyeing me through dark lashes. He catches my hand, fingers wrapping around my wrist to gently pull it away from him, letting his fingers slowly glide down my arm.

"Also good with my hands," he murmurs softly, a smirk ghosting the corner of his lips.

His voice, the words, the obvious implication sends a rush of warmth to my stomach, slow rivulets of pleasure down my back.

"That must be it" I agree, watching his hand drift from my upper arm, up to my shoulder, looking back up to him when he slides it down my side to rest at my waist. I reach my free hand up and cover his with mine. I take a minute to think about it, how much I get from him just standing here in silence. From the gentle pressure of his hand on my hip. The smooth texture of his marble skin beneath my fingertips.

My heart aches a little standing here now, thinking of the Slayer that came before me. The only other one to experience even a little bit of what I have. Sad for her, that she didn't make it this far.

Never had a partner.

None of them did.

"Can we sit?" I ask him softly, inclining my head in the direction of the living room. I'm suddenly keenly aware of the sounds coming from upstairs. There aren't any. Everything's gone very quiet. Spike just nods, pulling his hand out from under mine and gesturing with a sweep of his arm for me to go first.

I step around him, flipping off the kitchen light as I move through the already darkened dining room, through the lamp lit foyer, and on into the living room. I flip the table side lamp off as I walk by, leaving the room in gentle darkness, light from the porch still filtering in through the window.

I drop down onto the sofa, hastily kicking off my boots and leaning into the cushions, pulling my legs up underneath beneath me. When I look up, Spike is standing in the wide open entryway to the living room, watching me. I can't quite read the expression on his face, my eyes not adjusted to the dim light yet.

But he's curious about something. Wants to ask me _something_.

"So…" I start, thinking I'm going to ask him what he's thinking.

He beats me to it.

"Are we together then?"

I lean forward, grabbing the throw blanket from off the back of the sofa and pulling it back to my chest, tossing it out so it covers my legs. I don't look at him when I say it.

"I guess I kind of thought that was obvious," I say, leaning over into the the side of sofa and looking back up at him.

Spike smirks at me, stepping further into the living room and shrugging fluidly out of his leather duster.

"Obvious, maybe," he agrees, tossing the coat over the edge of the sofa's armrest, then looks back up at me. "The claim pretty much sealed that right up. But 's different, yeah? Knowing it and _defining_ it." He drops down onto the sofa beside me, body angled so it's facing mine. He props his arm up on the back sofa cushions, leaning his cheek down onto his knuckles. "Niblet's right. Haven't really talked about it."

I think about it for a minute.

I had really thought that it was obvious. With the whole claim being a forever thing, and the...loving each other thing. To me, it all added up to a being together thing.

Still, I guess he's right. Dawn had been right. If he doesn't know, it's something we should probably talk about.

So I decide to just say it.

"We're together."

I don't think Spike had expected me to just come right out and say it. His eyes widen slightly, and he lifts his head up off his knuckles to lean closer to me. It's sweet and warm all over again.

"We are," he agrees, reaching his hand toward me, pushing that same free strand of hair from earlier back behind my ear.

"But I don't think I can call you my...boyfriend," I say, watching as he pulls his hand away from me, an amused smile curving his lips. I shake my head. "It's too weird."

Spike chuckles, leaning back. "Ouch, pet."

I sigh.

"You know what I mean," I tell him, almost sternly, rolling my eyes.

He stops chuckling, still smiling at me. His eyes soften a little.

"I do, actually," he agrees quietly, searching my eyes with his. His expression turns more serious. "Like it's not enough."

And that's it exactly, I realize. Thinking of Spike as being anything less than...Spike. Anything less than what he's so quickly growing to mean to me. It's weird because it's wrong. Too _small_ , in a way.

Not enough.

So I nod, smile at him and say, "Yeah."

It grows peacefully quiet between us as we sit on the sofa, looking at each other.

Then he leans back into the sofa and rolls his shoulders. "Besides that, 's bloody stupid."

I have to laugh.

"It's not _stupid_ ," I say back, smiling at him and shaking my head.

"Oh, c'mon luv." It's his turn to roll his eyes at me now. He leans toward me, raising an eyebrow and lowering his voice dangerously low. "You really think any description with the word _boy_ in it is fittin'?"

And I have to laugh again, even though it's obvious he isn't exactly joking.

And he's far, far from wrong.

Sort of the opposite of wrong.

But I'm not going to let _him_ know that.

"You know what, you're right," I say breezily, gathering the extra material of the throw blanket up into my arms. I toss it out in front of me, covering Spike's legs with it, too. "You're way too old for that."

He shifts toward me, mock shouting a disgruntled "Oi!"

"So what should I call you then?" I ask quickly, arranging the blanket more securely around me and changing the subject.

Spike immediately grows quiet again, setting his hand down on top of the fuzzy material of the throw and gazing at me seriously.

"You know what the technical term is, pet," he says softly.

I shake my head immediately. "Still can't say the M word. It's just too...wiggy." I sigh, leaning back into the cushions and keeping my eyes on his. "We're not animals."

"No," he agrees simply, nodding his head. " _We're_ not. But the demons are."

It's funny to me, how we've begun referring to them like this. Like they're their own separate...entities from us. Which I guess they are.

But they're also inextricably linked to us. Parts of us.  
Parts of who we are together.

I'm still getting used to it, to being okay with it. But it isn't as difficult as I would have thought.

"That's only part of all this," I murmur.

Spike nods in agreement. "I know."

I watch him from where I'm sitting, my head resting lightly against the back cushion of the sofa. I hardly even notice when his hand inches forward and rests lightly on top of my knee, the borrowed heat from the blanket seeping down through it, through my jeans, down into my skin.

"Does it bother you that I won't call you my...my _mate_?" I ask after a minute, tilting my head up so I can look at him straight on.

He inhales, then slowly nods as he exhales again.

"Bothers my demon a bit, yeah." I can tell by the way he says it that it's the truth. And I'm glad. I hadn't asked for him to tell me what I'd wanted to hear. He shrugs. "'S what it knows you as."

"I'm sorry," I say quietly, but he's already shaking his head.

"Just tryin' to figure out what it is you should call me,luv," he says breezily, smiling wanly at me. "Now, let's see. I nixed boyfriend." He gestures to me. "You nixed mate. How bout…"

"My vampire," I suggest, thinking about the way I'd felt hearing it yesterday. Thinking it yesterday. It feels the same today. Sweet, possessive.

But I can tell immediately that my vampire isn't as excited about the idea as I am.

Spike's scarred eyebrow shoots up. "You want me goin' round callin' you my Slayer?"

My lips twitch.

"It'd be the truth," I tell him simply.

"Alright," he concedes, probably feeling the emotions coming off me. How much I like it. He sighs, shaking his head. "Guess it could be worse."

But knowing he doesn't like it makes it feel wonky.

"No." I shake my head, nobbling my bottom lip lightly. "It still isn't right."

A short, hot surge of frustration hits me square in the chest a second before Spike groans.

"Buffy," he growls warningly, turning away from me, dropping his head back onto the sofa cushions.

I frown at him. "I know it's silly."

"Bloody right it is." He lifts his head up, pinning me a look. And then the expression smoothes over, softening, the heated flush of irritation fading away as quickly as it came. Whatever he sees on my face has his voice honeyed now. "But it's botherin' you."

"I don't know why," I tell him, sighing. "I just don't want to...minimize it, I guess. And for whatever reason I have this weird need to label _this_ …" I gesture between the two of us, back and forth a couple times. "What you are."

"Lover, Buffy," he looks at me softly, sweetly. His eyes are stormy, swirling azure when they look into mine. "'S the word you're lookin' for. He tilts his head, leaning closer to me. "'S what I am."

The word hits me hard, and I know in a half second that he's exactly right. It's the word I'd been looking for, a word that feels...right. Good.

 _Lover_.

"Lover," I repeat the word out loud, quietly, nodding. Focusing on the feel of his thumb against my knee. "I like that."

Spike smiles gently at me, shifting his body over closer to me. His hand slides from my knee up to my thigh, still warm through the double layers beneath it.

"I like you," he says.

"You love me," I say back.

The words are light, airy as they pass by my lips.

Spike's eyes brighten as I say it, and then they fade to a stunning navy blue as he gazes at me.

"I do." He squeezes my leg gently. "But I like you, too."

"You... _like_ me?" I repeat his words, brow furrowing for emphasis.

Spike chuckles, leaning back as he nods and murmurs, "All 95 stubborn, insufferable, self-righteous pounds of you."

I shift toward him this time, my turn to mutter a half shouted "Hey!"

But Spike isn't listening to me, is already chuckling at me again.

"Granted, haven't been as insufferable or self-righteous as of late..."

I pull my hand out from under the cover of the blanket,leaning forward and poking him firmly in the chest for emphasis. "And _you_ haven't been nearly as piggish and annoying-"

Spike grabs my hand, covering it with his and pressing it so my palm lays flat over the center of his chest. His eyes are practically sparkling now, the corner of his eyes crinkling with soft laugh lines. He smirks, tongue curling again as he leans forward, pressing my hand more firmly against him.

"You _like_ that part of me," he says, my eyes dropping immediately to his lips, to that perfect curling tongue. .

"It's the only part I knew," I remind him, forcing my eyes back up to his.

He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and nods. "Exactly."

It makes me think, reminds me, that same thought I feel like I've had countless times about him over the past few days. Ever since I found that book. Read that name.

William Pratt.

Who was he? How much of this Spike, _my_ Spike, is made up of who he was before?

These are the questions tumbling through my head as I put my hands down on the cushions beside me, pushing myself up and forward until I'm directly beside him. My legs still tucked up beneath me, my knees resting just on top of his thigh. I angle my shoulder into his.

"I want to know more, Spike," I tell him softly, turning my eyes up to his. "About you. About who you were."

"Before," he says, almost like he's finishing my sentence, or maybe confirming it for himself. His voice is just as soft as mine had been.

I nod, looking away from him again. I focus my eyes on a small, fuzzy patch of grey in the otherwise black blanket. "No one knows. All the articles about you that we were able to find…" I look at him again, to see that he's listening to me, then back down again. "Back when you first showed up here. They only had stuff about... _after_ you were turned." I frown, making a face as I remember very vaguely some of the stories Giles had told us. The things he'd read to us. "The rail road spikes, the Whirlwind. Drusilla." I bite down into my cheek. "No one knows anything about who you were before."

Spike inhales slowly, then exhales just as slowly.

Then he reaches down quickly, reaching beneath the blanket and hooking his arm beneath my knees, forcibly, gently, extending my legs out so that they rest on top of his. His other hand comes around my waist, pulling me closer to him.

"You do," he whispers, removing his right arm from beneath my knees and setting it down on the sofa beside my hip.

I lean into him automatically, letting my shoulder lean further into his. Shake my head. "I know a name," I insist, my eyes still on his. "That's all."

"You saw the book."

I frown, tilting my head back so I can look for fully in his face. "The poetry book?"

Spike nods, leaning forward and barely ghosting his lips over mine. Then he pulls back, the tips of our noses touching. "Everythin' worth knowin' about William is in that book."

For seeming so adamant about keeping his past safely hidden from me, I have to wonder why it is he'd choose to keep something so firmly tied back to who he was.

Why did he keep it if it's the only thing left to tie him back to that?

He leans back away from me, his arm tightening around me again.

"Is that why you kept it?" I ask.

Spike laughs. It's a hollow laugh, though. Short, forced. And he shakes his head like maybe it's a question he hasn't thought about before, or maybe just one he's purposefully avoided answering.

"Dunno," he says with another much quieter burst of laughter. When he looks back at me, his eyes are different. Further away. Thinking about something, remembering something. "Just...never got around to tossin' it."

"You were reading when I came in tonight," I tell him. "What were you reading?"

"Nothin'," He says automatically. Then adds, "Just a poem." I raise my eyebrows, and he grudgingly adds, "Poem what reminds me of you." My eyes must light up at that, the rush of soft heat flowing steadily between us at his words, because he very quickly puts his hand up, pushing his thumb and forefinger together. "A _little_."

But it's too late now. There's a wide, bright smile on my face as I look up at him.

He groans, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling and shaking his head. "Oh, bloody hell."

I lean forward, putting my free hand on his shoulder and leaning my chin onto it.

"Will you read it to me sometime?" I ask.

He barely pauses before the automatic response is out. "Absolutely not."

I bite back a laugh at the deadpan note in his voice, leaning back to look at him.

"Why?"

"Because I'm not a sodding _ponce_ ," he grits out between clenched teeth, and I can see it on his face, how serious he is. "That's why."

Spike looks away from me, the muscle in his jaw ticking. His lips purse. Then he looks back at me, sighing.

"Why do you want me to read it?" He asks me, his voice not quite as hard as it had been a moment ago, but still a little terse.

I give him a look, like it's the most ridiculous question I've ever heard.

"Umm, maybe because it's a poem and it reminds you of me?" I say it like it should be obvious, because it should be. My lips twitch up into a soft smile, tilting my head to the side, eyeing him through my lashes. "Do I need another reason?"

Spike groans. "God, you _are_ a girl, aren't you?"

I narrow my eyes, glaring at him.

"You are so difficult," I say, voice low.

" _Fine_ , Slayer," he growls, looking down at me seriously. I look up at him with wide eyes. "If it'll get you to drop this whole bleeding thing?" He waits for me to nod, then groans, leaning his head back against the top of the sofa. "Don't need to read it, anyway."

I'm about to ask him what he means when his arm tightens around me, tugging me more firmly into his side, fitting me snugly against him.

He threads his right hand up into my hair, twisting his fingers in the long strands, pressing my cheek down against his shoulder. The position effectively hides my eyes from his, and somewhere I recognize that it's because he's embarrassed. That the reality is I'm probably asking a lot of him, that there's a reason he'd been so quick to say no, to be so adamant in his denial of it.

That he's doing this solely for me. Because I've asked him to.

It makes it matter that much more, and I have to wonder if this is another look into who he was, who he still is a little bit.

So I melt into him, letting him shield my eyes from him. And then he starts to speak.

" _Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife,_

 _Round my true heart thine arms entwine;_

 _My other dearer life in life,_

 _Look thro' my very soul with thine!_

 _Untouch'd with any shade of years,_

 _May those kind eyes for ever dwell!_

 _They have not shed a many tears,_

 _Dear eyes, since first I knew them well._

His voice low, soft. Just the tiniest bit raspy from the emotion I feel like he can't help but read with. It's rough and smooth at once. Leather and honey.

 _Yet tears they shed: they had their part_

 _Of sorrow: for when time was ripe,_

 _The still affection of the heart_

 _Became an outward breathing type,_

 _That into stillness past again,_

 _And left a want unknown before;_

 _Although the loss that brought us pain,_

 _That loss but made us love the more._

He gives the words that same slow, lilting melody. The cadence that you only know how to read with if it's something you care about. It's probably something you have to be taught. Or maybe it's something you just know.

Either way, it's insanely beautiful. The rhythm of the words washing over me as I melt further into him.

 _With farther lookings on. The kiss,_

 _The woven arms, seem but to be_

 _Weak symbols of the settled bliss,_

 _The comfort, I have found in thee:_

 _But that God bless thee, dear who wrought_

 _Two spirits to one equal mind_

 _With blessings beyond hope or thought,_

 _With blessings which no words can find…"_

He trails off, even though I can tell it isn't probably the end of the poem.

Just as much as he's wanted to share with me.

I wonder if he even realizes how much he's revealed to me about who he was before just by reciting this short excerpt to me. That he was probably soft spoken, well educated. Sweet.

Probably everything he _would_ think makes him a ponce.

Had no one ever told him that wasn't true?

Then I think about his sire. His grandsire. The vampires he spent all of his time around after being turned, that type of evil. Destructive, all consuming. Egomaniacal.

I shiver a little in his arms, lean further into Spike's chest, wedging myself more firmly beneath his chin.

It's kind of a miracle he's been able to retain even a tiny bit of who he'd been before, let alone as much as I feel like he probably _has_.

"That's pretty," I murmur, my eyelids growing heavy, fluttering closed.

"Not half as pretty as you," he whispers, his voice so soft now I barely hear it. His lips are in my hair, his arm wrapping more firmly around my waist. "My gorgeous girl."

He raises his free hand up into my hair again, deft fingers rubbing the back of my neck gently. The corners of my lips curve up in a lazy smile.

"William was a romantic," I murmur, stifling a yawn with my hand, my eyes still closed.

Below my cheek, Spike's shoulder shakes a little. A soft, velvety chuckle rumbles passed his lips and into the crown of my head.

"Still is," he murmurs quietly.

The quiet is nice. The quiet, the peace of the moment nice. Easy Necessary.

Tomorrow's going to be much harder.

It's tomorrow that I'm thinking about when I finally fall asleep with my head on Spike's shoulder, my legs resting comfortably on top of his lap, and his gentle, murmured words into my hair.

With just enough time to remind him to close the heavy, wide curtains before I do.


	32. Chapter 31

When I wake up, it's to the soft rays of sunlight filtering in through the window. It takes me a minute to get my bearings, blinking my eyes against the light.

I think this is the first time I've slept later than sunrise in weeks.

It only takes me another minute before my stomach drops, cold, clammy fear hitting me like a handful of ice cubes at the base of my neck.

Sun. There's sunlight in my room. On my face.

Which means it's probably also on my vampire, who happens to be big with the being flammable.

My eyes snap fully open and I jerk forward, head spinning from going from lying down to sitting up too quickly.

And that's when I remember that I hadn't been lying down when I'd fallen asleep. I'd been sitting in Spike's lap, my head on his shoulder. On the sofa in the living room.

I'm not on the sofa in the living room. I'm in my bed.

And there's no Spike. At least not here in the room, with me.

He's still in the house, somewhere.

Frowning, I reach up and run a hand through my hair, trying to retrace my steps the night before. I don't remember leaving the sofa. I don't remember having come back upstairs at all.

In the logical, if still a little sleep muddled, back of my head I realize that Spike must have brought me up here at some point during the night. Set me down, covered me up.

And then left again.

I take a moment to glance down again, noting the fact that I'm in fact not wearing what I had been when I'd fallen asleep.

I definitely have on my sushi pajamas.

So…Spike carried me up here, set me down, covered me up, then left again.

But not before changing my clothes?

I try and ignore the total body flush that's threatening to turn me an unattractive shade of pink at the thought. Not that he hasn't, ya know…seen it all before.

Which is probably exactly what he'll say to me when I mention it.

I frown deeper, glancing up toward my bedroom door. It's closed.

Why would he have left instead of just staying in here with me?

Again, I know he hasn't left the house, because I can feel him here. So it isn't like he tucked me in and left to go back to his crypt.

I reach down to peel the comforter off me, tossing it back, swinging my legs over the side of the mattress and standing up. Padding over to the bedroom door, I reach out and open it, sticking my head out and glancing down one side of the hallway, and then the other.

Both Mom's and Dawn's bedroom doors are wide open, as is the bathroom across the hall.

I do the math in my head, trying to figure out what day it is. Was yesterday Friday? Or Saturday?

It was one or the other.

So today is either a Saturday or a Sunday.

God, I can't believe I don't know what day it is.

Can probably kiss passing any of my classes goodbye.

I'm just about to shut the door again, disappear into my room and raid my closet for something fitting of a Saturday-or-Sunday-morning, when I hear it.

Laughter.

More specifically, Mom's laughter, coming from downstairs. Too far away to be the living room, but possibly the dining room? Kitchen?

There's a tinkling sound, metal on metal, pans being taken out of cabinets or set up on the stovetop. Another low peel of laughter.

I step all the way out into the hallway, making my way over to the landing of the stairs.

"Mom?" I call out, reaching a hand up to run it through my tangled hair.

I grimace when it gets caught on a particular violent tangle, groaning, reaching my other hand up to help get the knot free.

I'm in the middle of my majorly poor attempt at grooming when there's movement below me, someone stepping out into the foyer and looking up at me from the bottom of the stairs.

Spike.

My eyes meet his, and I snatch my hands out of my hair quickly, doing my best to tame the matted strands as I do.

He takes a minute to take in my flushed appearance, tangled hair, matching pj's. His eyes travel from my hair, down to the tips of bare toes and all the way back up again.

I fold my arms across my chest instinctively, embarrassed for reasons I can't even begin to explain.

The only thing I'm getting from him is complete and total adoration.

"Good mornin'," he says, a playful smirk quirking the corner of his mouth. He braces one hand against the wooden trim on the wall beside him. The sleeves of his black button down are rolled up, cuffed at his elbows, like maybe he's been working with his hands.

"Sleep well?" He asks me lightly, and it makes the corners of my own lips curve up. Standing at the bottom of my steps, in my house, looking up at me with those impossibly warm eyes and asking me how I slept.

Like this is his house, and I'm the guest in it.

I suck my cheeks in and bite down on the inside of the right one, pursing my lips to keep from smiling and nodding down at him.

"Apparently too well," I reply, leaning against the railing and raising my eyebrows. "Wanna tell me how you found my yummy sushi pajamas?"

Spike chuckles, letting his hand slide down the wall beside him.

"Wanna tell me why you call them yummy sushi pajamas?"

I frown at him. "It's what they are."

He shakes his head. "It's what you are in them."

The blush hits my face hard, out of nowhere, coloring my cheeks and flooding them with heat.

The smirk becomes more pronounced and he removes his hand from the wall completely, leaning forward and dropping his voice lower.

"I love it when you do that," he says, grinning, folding his arms over his chest casually.

And I kind of can't help but smile back.

"Where's Mom?" I ask, deciding that it really doesn't matter now what I look like, or that I haven't showered, or that Spike's seen me in my pajamas. I put my hand on the bannister and start padding down the wooden steps. "I heard the sounds of fun being had."

Spike nods, never taking his eyes away from me for a second as I approach him.

"That what finally woke you up?" He asks in return, reaching out automatically and offering me his hand once I get close enough, helping me down the last couple steps. "Been dead to the world for hours."

I keep my hand inside of his, shaking my head, glancing over into the living room where I'd last seen him.

"No," I murmur, taking in the sight before me. "The sun did."

The heavy curtains in the room to my right are still drawn, blocking out the sun's light, and the black and grey throw blanket is folded and back in it's place over the back of the sofa. There's an obviously unused, still folded set of sheets on the left cushion, too.

So that's where he'd ended up sleeping.

I turn back to look at him, brow furrowed. "Why did you sleep down here?"

Spike shrugs, letting go of my hand and starting to move backwards into the dining room. Now that I'm down here, I can hear the soft sounds of movement in the kitchen, both the voices of Mom and my sister drifting to us quietly.

"Mum made a point of puttin' a spare set of linens out," he says simply, like it explains everything.

I don't bother to point out that I have a feeling part of it was the idea of having to explain both of us coming out of my room at the same time to the other Summers women. Not that anything would have happened, not with both of them in the house with us, but the implication still would've been there. And it wouldn't have mattered in the end if we had or hadn't been physical.

The jokes would be made either way.

But we're going to have to address it at some point. It seems silly to me, to not…sleep together. To not stay together during the night.

Here we are, with this whole unbreakable demon bond thing going for us, and he has to sleep on the sofa?

For years I pinned over the loss of my normalcy. Had wanted nothing more than to just go back to having a normal life. Well, this is just a little too normal for me.

I follow Spike into the kitchen, spot Mom standing over the stove top with one of the new non-stick pans Dawn had ordered for her, coffee mug in one hand and a spatula in the other.

Dawn is perched at her spot at the island, the same as last night, a mug in front of her as well.

I raise an eyebrow at her when I come in.

"Want a cigarette to go with that?" I ask, inclining my head toward the coffee, steam still swirling off the top of it.

Dawn sticks her tongue out at me.

I take only the smallest bit of satisfaction that she's still in her pajamas, too.

"I'm not drinking it," she tells me, reaching her hands out to wrap around the base of the ceramic mug. "I just like the way it smells."

Now both my eyebrows go up, and I shake my head at her.

"You are so weird."

"Do you want some eggs, Buffy?" Mom asks me, drawing my attention back to her. She looks up at me and smiles, her eyes bright. She has a brightly patterned scarf tied around her head, keeping her hair back.

She points down to the lightly scrambled eggs in the pan with the tip of the spatula. "These are just about done."

I don't answer her right away. For a minute, I just look at her.

Seeing her standing in the kitchen like this, drinking coffee, cooking. It feels like it's been years since I've seen this.

Or maybe it just feels like that. Maybe I hadn't realized how afraid I'd been that I might not ever see it again.

"Umm, yeah," I say after a minute, feeling Spike step a little closer up behind me. The tips of his fingers just barely touch mine. "Sure." I smile warmly at her. "Thanks, Mom."

She smiles back, and I take a second to sneak a glance toward the calendar she has hung up above her desk, beside the phone.

The Friday is marked out, but the Saturday isn't.

So Saturday. That's what I'm going with.

"There's juice in the fridge, if you want some," Mom's saying now, giving the eggs one last stir before reaching up and flicking the stove off. "Or coffee, obviously."

I squeeze past her, making my way to the cabinets where I know the plates are, pulling it open and grabbing three down.

Mom stops me, leaning over and touching my shoulder lightly.

"Oh, Buffy, grab one more," she says, turning away from me. "You have to try some."

It takes me a second to figure out she's talking to Spike. I turn around, too, my hands still reaching up toward the shelf with the plates on it.

"Afraid they'd be wasted on me, Joyce," he tells her, folding his arms and leaning casually against the wall.

Mom's shoulders sag a little. "But you were such a big help."

My eyes widen, hands falling from the shelf to turn fully around, facing the peroxided vampire across from me. And I swear, if he could blush, he would be.

"You helped?" I ask him, my voice light, wishing that I'd gotten myself up out of bed just a few minutes earlier.

Spike shakes his head, muttering a muffled "hardly" under his breath.

"Spike," she says, that motherly tone in her voice, half reprimand and half exhalation. "You practically did everything." She turns to look at me, smiling softly. "I only took over when we heard you calling."

I turn to look back at Spike, something that feels an awful lot like pride swelling in my chest.

"Wasn't like it was bloody hard," he says, pushing harder into the wall for leverage before standing up straight again. "Just followed Joyce's direction."

My brow furrows slightly but I'm still smiling at him as I squeeze back passed Mom.

"Direction?" I ask, stepping closer to him.

He raises both eyebrows, tilting his head down closer to mine.

"Do I look like somebody who knows how to sodding cook?"

I drop my voice down low, for his ears only, titling my head back so I can look more completely into his face.

"You can read Latin and recite poetry from memory, but you can't cook?" I ask skeptically, wondering, actively a little astonished, at what sort of demon I'd unwittingly chosen as mine.

He shrugs, the defensive position of his body melting slightly at the whatever it is he sees in my eyes.

He uncrosses his arms.

"Never needed to learn," he says quietly, his voice matching mine, equally low.

He hadn't just offered to help, he'd asked for direction. He'd wanted to learn.

I know Spike eats food. Human food. Heard enough stories about how the vampire had attempted to eat Giles "out of house and home" those weeks he'd been living with him.

But he hadn't known how to cook. Had never needed to.

Until now.

He can see it on my face when I've put two and two together, nodding at me, reaching his hand toward me and running his knuckle quickly, so quickly I'm almost not even sure it's happened, over the curve of my jaw.

And then he's looking up, glancing between myself and Dawn.

"And," he says pointedly, raising his voice, drawing the word out, "the way Joyce tells it, neither of you two know how to boil water."

Dawn just shrugs, a self deprecating expression on her face. "She's not wrong."

We finish breakfast amidst a lot of laughter, various bouts of teasing and honestly, pretty darn delicious eggs.

Spike pretends he isn't pleased when Mom tells him just how good they are, but he can't fool me.

One of the niftier aspect of the connection, I think. We're going to have a hell of a time ever managing to lie to each other.

After breakfast, I happily volunteer myself and Dawn for clean up duty, using that time to needle her for information on what exactly she'd told Mom ahead of our little meeting the night before. When I finally get her to tell me, she grudgingly admits she'd told Mom just about everything. Claiming, of course, that she thought it would make things easier for us.

And the funny thing is, I can't even bring myself to be angry at her for it. The fact was, it had helped. Things had gone better than I'd even hoped they would.

And still were, if the soft chuckles floating to us from the living room are any indication.

So I settle for splashing her with dirty dish water, delighting in her high pitched squeal, and call it even.

Once dish duty is finished, Dawn retreats out into the living room with the others, and I grudgingly turn my attention to calling Giles.

I enter the living room fifteen or so minutes later, dropping down onto the sofa in between Dawn and Spike, just in time to hear the tail end of the conversation they'd been having.

"…which means we're going to have to start stocking the fridge with blood," Dawn says casually, laughing at a joke that I obviously missed.

I watch as Mom blanches slightly at the word, the visual image I'm sure she's gotten of blood bags hanging in amongst the fresh produce, paling a little at the idea.

I don't blame her.

Moment's like this, it's incredibly easy to forget the details of what exactly Spike is. His baser nature.

I used to forget with Angel all the time, but that was for different reasons. Angel made a big production of hiding what he was, going to great lengths to keep it from me those first few months we'd known each other. Even afterward, he'd hardly ever shown it to me. Fought hard to keep his game face hidden, hardly, if ever, drank blood in front of me. Always so concerned, so worried, about showing me what it is he was.

Angel had intentionally hidden the demon from me.

Spike doesn't intentionally hide anything. He makes you forget by not trying to hide.

Because there's a part of him that's proud of what he is. What he's capable of. I know it, can vividly remember it. Had seen it on his face every single time we'd fought. Even more recently, when we'd only been playing, sparring for fun.

And the kicker is, I don't think it's the demon itself that's proud of his power, that makes him want to brag about his prowess, but that it's something else. The man. Not William, necessarily…not the man he was before, but the man he is now. The one that's some kind of mixture of the two, shaped by the experiences of both, but still somehow completely separate.

Like he's three different people at any given time.

The same way I am.

I used to think it was just like there were two of me. Buffy, the girl, and the Slayer, the warrior. But I'm starting to see now that it isn't quite that cut and dried.

Who I am as Buffy, as the girl, influences the type of Slayer that I am. The same way being the Slayer inherently influences the way I handle things in my every day life. And then, somewhere else, very distantly, I can remember who I was before I was called.

Young, and shallow. I remember telling Angel about it once, wondering if he would have…could have still loved me if I hadn't been the Slayer.

So, yeah. Not two people, but three. And they all manage to exist together and completely separately all at once.

My head kind of hurts thinking about it.

I force my attention back to the TV, watching the action on the screen without really seeing anything. I'm not even sure what movie Dawn had ended up picking out. Something "scary" I think, citing that it was only fitting, what with the thunderstorm outside.

It's still thundering now, slow rumbles reaching my ears every few minutes from somewhere in the distance.

Funny now that the sound of thunder makes my stomach grow hot, my inner muscles tighten slightly.

Had that really just been a couple nights ago? It seems like so much longer.

"Hey," Spike murmurs from behind me, his voice low in my ear, lips just barely touching me. The arm he has around me waist tightens slightly. "You alright?"

The question cuts through my reverie, the far too many thoughts tumbling around in my brain.

"Yeah," I say, twisting around in his arms and giving him a small smile and nodding. "Yeah, I'm good. Just thinking."

He searches my face for a minute.

"About talking with your slayerettes?"

It's wrong, but it's as good a guess as any. I'd actually been sot of on the avoid end of that particular subject, ever since I'd gotten up the nerve to call Giles and ask him if we could meet there to talk to the gang later tonight.

He hadn't sounded overly excited by the idea of us telling everyone, but he hadn't argued with me, either.

That had been several hours ago. I'll probably have to force myself up and into the shower here before too long, make myself presentable.

I can't remember the last time I was nervous for a Scooby meeting.

"What?" I ask Spike, my voice light, sarcastic. "You don't think it'll go as well as last night?"

His expression grows serious.

"I know you're nervous, luv," he murmurs, searching my eyes with his. "You care what they think."

I shake my head, even though I'm not sure what I mean by it. If I'm telling him no, I don't care. Or if I'm telling myself I shouldn't.

I mean when I say the next part, though.

"It doesn't matter what they think."

It doesn't matter if I care what they think, either. Nothing's going to change.

I'd realized it before, talking to Giles, that this moment would be defining one. Spike and I made our decision. Giles, Mom and Dawn made theirs.

Now it's time for everyone else.

"I know it doesn't," he says earnestly, leaning back into the sofa. "Good thing, too. Harris has always had it out for me."

I glance toward him, one eyebrow raised.

"You did sort of try and kill him," I remind him, leaning my shoulder into his, watching the steady rise and fall of Dawn's chest as she naps on the other end of the sofa. "And Willow hasn't exactly forgotten about the 'bottle in face' incident."

Spike snorts, the indignation rumbling through his chest telling me that's the lamest reason he's ever heard.

"I've tried to kill the whole lot of you," he says simply, casually. "More than once."

It's almost funny.

I lean back further, using the entire front and side of his body like a pillow, back of my head resting against the curve of his shoulder. "That's probably not the best way to start the conversation."

Spike tilts his head down, pressing his lips to my hair. "Was a bloody long time ago."

"Not to them," I say softly, my eyes still focused on Dawn. "It's not just about you, you know."

His body tenses up beneath mine, and I know he knows what I'm saying. What I'm talking about.

"Buffy," he breathes, like it's a warning. Not…at me, but _for_ me.

He doesn't want me thinking it. Saying it. What I think we're both thinking now, if the soft swell of heated jealousy swirling low in my gut is any indication. Whether it's because he can practically read my mind, or if he's feeling something else coming from me, I don't know.

But I'm not surprised when he presses his lips to my ear and whispers, "'M nothin' like Angel."

He doesn't say it urgently, or defensively. And he doesn't say it sadly, either.

His voice is soft, deceptively neutral. The words carry a huge weight to them. For both of us. And they mean so many different things, both good and bad. He's nothing like Angel in all the ways that matter, both "good" and "bad".

And I'm honestly starting to understand that the good there, in that particular comparison, far outweighs the bad. At least for me.

Spike fits me in a way Angel never did. And it isn't so much about Angel as it is about me.

I don't turn around to say it, don't need to, letting my eyes fall closed and enjoying the smooth, steady rise and fall of Spike's chest behind me.

"I know."

And it's funny that those two little words almost feel like I've said _I'm glad_.

I sigh, slowly opening my eyes again and glancing toward the clock on the wall above the TV. I need to get up. Need to get in the shower.

Need to get ready.

"They won't get it," I say quietly, more to myself than to Spike. Just a soft musing, my voice distant, distracted. Not expecting a response.

It doesn't stop me from getting one.

"They don't have to," Spike reminds me.

Maybe thinking the same thing that I am. That I might hope my friends will be accepting, understanding, but that even if they are they still won't _get_ it. And also that the most important people we had to tell were more than accepting of it all.

Mom and Dawn have done nothing _but_ accept the two of us together.

This time I do turn around, twisting in his arms so I can look at him.

"I know that, too," I tell him softly, the words a promise more than anything else.

And when he leans forward and kisses me with a stunning, almost surprising, amount of passion,a small gasp escaping my lips when he pulls me into him, I'd swear I can hear Mom's soft chuckle from the hallway.

Once I finally drag myself off the sofa and trudge my way up the stairs, I take my time with the whole showering and getting ready thing. We're supposed to meet everyone at 7:00, but I'd explained briefly to Spike that I wanted to be there a little before that. For some reason, in my head, this whole thing goes smoother when he and I are already waiting there with Giles when the gang shows up. Spike had nodded, saying something about it giving the appearance of solidarity.

Then he'd reminded me that if Xander says anything even remotely nasty toward me, he wouldn't hesitate to "lay the blighter out," government sponsored headache be damned.

Once I've managed to make myself presentable, we say goodbye to Mom and Dawn, both of whom manage to look as anxious about the whole thing as I feel. We make a quick stop off at Spike's crypt before heading to the Magic Box, giving him the chance to change his clothes— apparently back into his usual all black, plain cotton t-shirt and jeans.

He disappears down into the bottom half of the crypt for a brief moment, remerging moments later bare chested, a plain black t-shirt in hand.

"Do you just have, like, a whole closet full of those?" I ask, thinking about the fact that, in all the year's I've known him, I've never once seen him wear a different color shirt.

Sure, I've seen a couple different button downs, but even those had only started making more appearances recently.

For three year's, it's been mostly black on black on black.

So either he has a whole bunch of the same thing stashed away somewhere, or he does laundry.

I don't know which is weirder.

"Got a problem with the wardrobe, do you?" Spike asks, smirking at me as I watch him yank the fresh t-shirt over his head, shoulder muscles flexing and tousling his hair in the process.

"No," I say simply, honestly, digging my hands down into the pockets of my big fur lined coat. I've never once had a problem with his clothes. The black and the leather have always just been so…Spike to me. So fitting.

Maybe it's having seen this softer side of him that has me questioning it now.

"I like the black," he says, equally simply, letting the cotton fall loosely around his hips, not bothering to tuck it in like he usually does.

He eyes me playfully one last time before turning his attention back to the stone coffin near the fridge, where he'd tossed his duster before heading down to change. I watch him pick it up, shrugging back into it, flipping the collar back and turning once again to face me.

"You should try blue sometime," I say softly, my eyes trained on him, glued to the fathomless azure as he walks back toward me. I tilt my head to the side thoughtfully. "Match your eyes."

He comes to a stop directly in front of me, gazing down at me with a gentleness that two weeks ago would have seemed impossible, but now feels like the only way he's ever looked at me.

"Would it?"

And I'm a little surprised that he seems to be legitimately asking me.

I frown, brow furrowing as I nod. "You do have blue eyes, Spike."

He chuckles at me. "I know that, pet," then he pauses, the smirk fading from his lips. "What color blue?"

"Kinda hard to say. They change a lot," I tell him honestly, thinking about how many different shades of the color I've seen them take on. Throughout the day, in the course of an hour. Navy, cerulean, Robin's egg, indigo.

No wonder he can't remember exactly.

"How bout now," he murmurs, stepping a little closer to me, pinning me with the eyes in question. He blinks, dark lashes fluttering agains his cheeks, making the color of his irises appear even brighter than it had a moment ago.

"Umm, okay. You know the way the sky looks right before the sun goes completely down?" Spike nods hesitantly. "That's the color now."

He smiles softly down at me. "Sounds nice."

I smile back, enjoying the steady, gentle tug of his fingers as he winds a lock of my hair around them and murmur, "It is."

He sighs then, exhaling slowly and brushing that lock of hair back off my shoulder.

"Ready then?" He asks, dropping his hand and inclining his head toward the door.

"As I'll ever be," I answer, nodding, turning away from him to make my way up the steps.

I'm stopped by his hand in mine, his palm pressing gently into my fingers.

"It doesn't matter what they think," he reminds me urgently, a little like he's reminding himself of it, too. My fingers curl instinctively, concentrating on the places my skin is pressed to his.

He's said it to me multiple times tonight. Any time he'd felt my anxiety levels rising, I'd guessed. But each time he says it, it has the same effect. Whether it's the way he says it, or the fact that he's always touching me when he does, I don't know. But it's instantly calming. Makes me forget, for however long, that there could actually be any reaction to this…to what's between us…that could be anything other than good.

But then I remember who it is we're dealing with. How it is they feel. How I felt myself all too recently.

And none of them having had the benefit of getting to know Spike at all, not the way I had.

But he's right. He's right when he says it doesn't matter what they think, because what they think can't change anything. Won't change anything.

Not in the cards. Not on the table.

"No," I agree readily, giving his hand a gentle tug, watching as he automatically steps closer to me in response. "It really, really doesn't."

Our plan to get to the Magic Box first apparently hadn't been our plan exclusively. All four of them are there when we arrive. Anya perched in her place beside the cash register, Xander hovering close to her side. Willow and Tara seated on one of the upholstered benches at the table. And they're eyes all fixed on Giles, standing in the center of the open space at the bottom of the steps, speaking to them in hushed tones.

I can't make out what it is he's saying exactly, but Spike can, because the second we walk into the store—through the back door, making our way through the training room, his body stiffens.

And the anxiety that hits me in the chest isn't mine.

When we step through the training room door, five pairs of eyes turn toward us instantly.

It's very still for a moment as we all look at one another. No one speaks, no one moves. Behind me, tenseness rolls off my vampire in waves, every inch of him coiled, like he's preparing to fight.

Everything is quiet.

And then all hell breaks loose.

Everyone talking at once, talking at me all at once, and I can't make out any of it. Not distinctly. Willow's eyes are wide, her mouth moving a mile a minute. Tara isn't actually saying anything to me, but rather to her girlfriend, looking an awful lot like she's trying to calm her down. Anya is saying something, too, but her expression isn't angry. It isn't disinterested either.

And Xander is speaking louder than anyone else, his finger pointing hard in my direction. I get the distinct feeling that he's scolding me, even though I can't really tell what he's saying.

And Giles is standing in the middle of all this, one arm across his chest, the other pressing his hand against his temple. Expression drawn, lips in a hard line. His eyes down on the ground.

Like this is maybe exactly what he'd told everyone not to do.

My head is spinning with the onslaught.

I back up on instinct, my back coming into contact with Spike's chest before I even manage a full step.

And it's the reassurance of him behind me, the firm pressure of his body against mine, that makes me remember myself.

"That's enough," I say sternly, not too loudly, but loud enough to cut through the din. Loud enough that everyone falls silent again, blinking at me with suddenly wide eyes.

Xander and Willow both stare at me, looking for all the world like I've just kicked their dog.

But I'm having a hard time caring. I didn't run the Council out of town to be bullied down by my friends.

"Someone want to tell me what the hell is going on here?" I ask, met almost instantly by another chorus of voices. I put my hands out flat in front of me, eyeing my friends, eyebrows raised. "Maybe we try for one at a time?"

The room grows silent again.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Xander demands, stepping forward instantly, his eyes fixing mine with a mix of disappointment and concern.

"Tell you…" I trail off, my eyes shooting over to Giles, then back again. "What exactly?"

"About Dracula? About what you did? About why the Council was actually here?" He shrugs, throwing his hands in the air. "Take your pick."

But I don't answer him. My eyes are back on my Watcher now, my brow furrowed.

"You told them already?" I ask, wondering if that's what he'd been doing when we came in, or if Xander had managed to put all of that together just from the one off handed statement Lydia had made last night.

Giles pulls his hand away from his head, nodding slowly.

"I explained, a little, about the nature of the connection." He looks up at me, folding both arms over his chest now. He gestures toward the table, the scattered books across it. "Where it came from, the different…facets."

"Like the fact that it's permanent?"

Anya nods, leaning around Xander's shoulder. "He's very bothered by that."

"Obviously," Willow says tersely, her eyes on the former demon. Then they turn back to me, and I see the change happen. She swallows hard. "But, yeah…the whole forever thing's kind of throwing me for a loop, too."

Tara speaks up, but not directly to me. She's looking at Willow, almost like her statement is just a follow up to her girlfriend's. "It's just kind of a big deal."

"Yeah," Xander says bitingly, looking at them, then back to me. His eyes are wide, wild, hurt and confused all at once. It's enough to remind me why I'd been nervous about coming here tonight. "A big deal that you tell your friends about."

"Yes, okay," I say, putting my hands out in front of my again, but this time in more of a calming gesture. I'm careful to keep my voice level. "It is…permanent. Once the connection's been completed there's no breaking it."

Xander lets out a sharp, short scoffing noise, glancing around the room as though he's looking for back up.

"And you're just fine with it?" He asks me, his voice pitching a little higher in his frustration, his brown eyes narrowed on me. "Being stuck with a blood sucker for the rest of your _life_?" He shakes his head, turning away from me, pacing a few steps toward the counter before turning toward me again. "It was weird enough when you were just _dating_ Angel. This…"

He trails off again, and I bite my tongue, knowing he isn't finished. Thinking I should _let_ him finish.

Sure enough, a second later, his eyes flash and they're focused back on me again. Like I'm the only person in the room.

It isn't just anger in his voice, but hurt. He had felt betrayed. Betrayed when I'd told Willow and Giles about Mom, and not him. Betrayed again, now, for not telling him what was going on with me sooner.

So I let him yell at me.

"You're the _Slayer,_ " he half shouts, throwing his arms up in the air. "You're supposed to _kill_ undead evil things, not—"

A low growl rumbles from Spike's throat, cutting Xander off. Probably for the best.

I don't know exactly what it was he was going to say, but I have a feeling he would have regretted it later.

"Calm the bloody hell down, Harris," he warns, voice dangerous, low.

"Shut up, Spike," he says automatically, instinctively, like he's on autopilot. Like he hasn't even noticed the bleached vampire's presence.

And I see it when he does.

His eyes shoot passed me, to where Spike is standing, and I watch as they narrow to slits. I suck in a deep breath, holding it in, waiting for whatever storm is about to be set loose.

I'm surprised when instead of looking angry, Xander just looks completely confused.

"What are you even doing here?" He asks.

The air rushes out of my lungs in a whoosh, and I glance frantically over to Giles. He isn't looking at me.

 _Oh._

So he hadn't quite gotten around to that part.

My eyes widen slightly, and I swallow. My throat's suddenly gone very dry.

"Buffy?" Willow says, sounding as confused as everyone else in the room suddenly looks. Her eyes drift from mine, back behind me to Spike, then slowly back to me again.

I bite down on my bottom lip, sucking my cheeks in as I think about how exactly I want to go about doing this.

"Uh, right." Spike presses his his hand lightly to the small of my back. "Okay." I take a deep breath in through my nose, exhaling slowly through pursed lips. I look at my friend again. "Remember those…dreams I was having?"

She looks confused for another half second before I see realization steel over her features, green eyes widening in sudden understanding. "Oh my God."

"Oh my God?" Xander asks, glancing at her, then to Tara, then back to me. He frowns, shaking his head. "Oh my God…what?"

Spike lets out a low, appreciative chuckle. I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who can hear it.

Willow just turns to look at him like he's an idiot.

Giles still has his eyes down.

"Xander," Anya says, sounding a little annoyed, gesturing flippantly toward me and Spike. Like he's missing something that's painfully obvious.

It takes another minute, and me raising both my eyebrows, for him to finally get it.

His eyes widen.

"No," he whispers. When no one tells him he's wrong, no one even makes a move to speak, his voice gets louder. "No, no, no." He looks at me again, jabbing a finger toward Spike. " _Him_?"

"'S right," my vampire confirms, practically purrs, an unmistakable note of pride in his voice that shoots a tingle down my spine, making me shiver.

Xander laughs, but it isn't like he actually thinks this is funny.

"Oh," he says sharply, his voice growing louder still, "you have _got_ to be kidding."

Willow shakes her head, the movement drawing my eye back to her. She isn't looking at me, or at Spike, but rather down at the ground in front of her.

"We all just assumed it was Angel," she murmurs, almost to herself.

She still looks like she doesn't quite believe me when she looks at me again.

"Yeah, you and everyone else." At her furrowed brow, I shrug. "Council thought so, too."

"They still do," Giles interjects calmly from his position at the table. He drags his eyes up, away from the spot on the floor he's been staring at this entire time. "And it's rather important to Buffy that it remain that way."

Xander scoffs again, turning away from me, planting his hands firmly on his hips.

"Yeah?" He asks, glancing back toward me, then again up to Spike. He narrows his eyes. "I'd be embarrassed, too."

I stare at him, not surprised but a little hurt anyway. I feel my eyes narrow on him and bite out a harsh "Xander" at the exact moment Spike snarls a low "Watch it, mate".

Xander looks murderous, but he doesn't say anything else. The air grows impossibly tense, heavy between the three of us. For a moment, it feels like there isn't anyone in the room with us at all.

Then someone clears their throat, cutting the tension and making us all turn to glance toward the research table.

"Wait," Willow says, frowning. "Buffy…are you going to do it? Go through with it?" She shifts her eyes almost nervously to Spike before looking back to me. "The connection, I mean."

It rubs me the wrong way. The way Xander's eyes are burning a hole in the space behind me where Spike is standing, the panicked look in Willow's eyes now, the way she's phrased the question.

 _Are you going to go through with it?_ Like it's something so horrible. Like the idea is something so completely _unthinkable_.

Heat floods my veins, cheeks flushing, irritation rising in my chest.

I feel my expression shift, lips forming a hard line. I angle my body toward her, shift the fur lined collar of my coat aside, turning the now exposed left side of my neck toward her. Reaching my hand up, I pull the neckline of my t-shirt away from Spike's mark.

Her eyes widen, and Tara lets out a soft gasp.

And my own voice has a soft note of pride in it when I say what I've just made so obvious.

"We already did."

It happens before I can blink.

One second, everyone is standing very still, just staring at each other. The next, Xander's across the room, flying at Spike, landing what sounds like a pretty solid punch directly to his jaw.

Not impressive enough for me to feel it, but enough to send Spike's head snapping back.

"You _bit_ her?" Xander asks heatedly, stepping back, only to throw another unwieldily punch at my vampire's face.

Spike's ready this time, catching it in his hand. I watch the fingers of his hand flex, watch his knuckles whiten as he tightens his grip.

"That's how a claim _works_ , you stupid git," he grits out through clenched teeth, his voice impossibly low, menacing.

And then he twists Xander's arm, pushing him aside with enough force that it makes his chip fire instantly.

We both cry out in pain, just as Anya shouts an indignant "Hey!".

My hand flies to press my palm to my forehead, body half doubled over from the pain radiating from the back of my head, rippling electric shocks upward.

Spike, on the other hand, seems relatively unbothered. By the pain, at least.

But his arms are around me in an instant, pulling me up, forcing me to straighten so he can pull me against him. He murmurs low, sweet words in my ear, hands running soothingly up and down my back.

And for just a moment, it's just us. Feels like we're the only two people in the room.

"'M sorry, pet," he whispers, kissing along my hairline, replacing the spot my hand had been a moment ago with soft, cool lips. "I forgot. Didn't think." Another soft kiss, then he pulls away looking down into my face. "You okay?"

The worst of the pain has already receded, so I nod cautiously, even though the movement makes me wince involuntarily.

His arms tighten around me.

How he'd ever managed to get used to that, I have no idea. It hadn't even looked like he'd shoved Xander that hard.

"I'm fine," I promise, pulling myself out of his arms and forcing myself to turn back around, knowing exactly what looks I'm going to find on my friends' faces when I do.

Yep.

Four pairs of very wide eyes. And a Watcher that's looking at me like this isn't at all how he thought this would go. I'm not sure why.

So far, it's actually going better than I expected.

Minus being all with the splitting headache now.

Xander's the first one to speak again.

"Can I be the first to offer a resounding _what_?" He says, opening his hand wide, palm toward me.

My ears are ringing slightly, and his question feels like it hits me square between the eyes. I wince again, feeling a soft pressure from Spike's hand.

"Didn't quite make it to the physical facet, huh?" I ask, turning my eyes toward Giles.

"No, I did," he says coolly, reaching one hand up to remove his glasses. "I don't think that's what's being referred to."

It takes me a minute to realize my right hand is still firmly gripping Spike's, his body still behind me, chest pressing reassuringly into my back.

"It's the, uh…" Giles shifts forward, resting his hip down casually on the research table. His eyes land on our enjoined hands. "Emotional side of things I hadn't quite gotten to."

He looks back up at me expectantly.

I blink at him, eyes widening slightly. "Oh."

There's not enough time. Not enough time for me to realize what that means, to understand just how much we've let everyone see without realizing.

"You." Willow points at me, then slowly over to Spike. "And _you_." Then quickly between the two of us. "You two…the two of you…" she trails off, her hand slowly lowering back down to her lap. She looks at me with confused eyes. "With the actual feelings and everything?"

And I'm not sure I could help the slow smile that curves my lips at the sheer wide eyed shock on her face, in her eyes.

I forget for a moment how frustrated I'd felt with her a moment ago.

"Yeah, Will," I say, my voice coming out softer than it has since we'd first set foot in here tonight. "With the actual feelings and everything."

There's a brief pause as she seems to take this in, things growing quiet.

It doesn't last long.

Xander turns an accusing finger toward Willow. "What did you do?"

"Me?" She says, her voice pitching high. She glances toward Tara, then back to Xander, shaking her head. "I didn't do anything!"

Xander pauses in his pacing, gets a weird look on his face. Like he's inclined to believe her, but doesn't really want to.

 _Because, God forbid, I have actual feelings for Spike_ , I think bitterly, watching him flounder.

"Oh, come on," Xander manages finally, his hands still on his hips. "This whole thing reeks of…" He barely looks at me, waving his hand toward Spike and I absently, "love spell gone wrong."

"You'd know all about that," Spike muses, his voice low, and I can picture the sinful look on his face. Those eyes narrowed, cheeks hollowed, pinning the brunette across from me with that haughty look I know so, so well. "Wouldn't you?"

Xander does look at me now, his expression one of surprised betrayal. "You told _him_ about that?"

"Just that I knew it'd probably come up," I answer quickly, frustration peaking again. "And, hey," I tilt my head to the side, smiling, voice falsely bright. "Point for me."

"Alright, fine," he grits out, "no love spell."

He starts pacing again, like he's working out a very difficult math problem in his head, mumbling almost to himself. "Then it's this…connection, or whatever. You just _think_ you have feelings—"

He stops short when he sees the smile starting to curve my lips, the look I cast back at Spike over my shoulder.

"What?" He asks, glancing around the room again.

Probably looking for what he's missed this time.

Giles clears his throat. "That was my assumption at first, as well. But according to the Council's records…" he shakes his head, like maybe he's tried to find a different answer and hasn't been able to, "the only other time this phenomena has occurred, it ended in blood shed. The connection doesn't manufacture emotional ties. It can only magnify what's already there."

It looks a little like it pains him to say it, but I don't care. All that matters to me is that he's said it.

Defended me. Defended _us_.

"That's why the Council assumed it was Angel?" Tara asks, speaking directly to me for the first time tonight. I turn my eyes on her.

Her face is open, earnest as she gazes up at me. Not a single ounce of disgust, or confusion. If she's feeling either of them, she isn't showing it.

And it would make sense, if she was the only one here who didn't feel that way. She's the only one of us with no real prior bias against Spike. She'd only ever known him once he'd been chipped.

So I smile warmly at her and nod. "Yeah."

"Okay." Willow again. "So if it isn't the connection, and it isn't a spell…" she pauses, scanning my face. "What does that mean?"

"Never knew your lot were so thick," Spike mutters from behind me, his lips nearly tickling my ear as he leans forward.

I lean almost imperceptibly back into him and look at Willow. "It means we're together."

Her brow is furrowed, green eyes still impossibly wide.

"Like…" her eyes shift from me, back toward Spike, then to me again. "Together together?"

"Like…partners," I muse, thinking about the way I'd felt last night, standing in my kitchen with him. That that's really what it boils down to. This connection supposed to make us the same, two parts of one something bigger than either of us.

Not just equals. We've always been equals. This is a kind of strength, the kind of solidarity of knowing you always have someone in your corner. No matter how difficult things might get.

Something I know I've never really had before.

Partners.

It's as good a word as any. The best way I can think to explain what it is to my friends who will probably never understand, even if they grow to accept it.

"Sexy partners," Anya quips matter-of-factly, not asking, but stating. In that simple, this is just the way things are way that makes Anya refreshing and infuriating at the same time.

And Xander groans just as Giles makes a choked, stuttering sound.

I don't bother to affirm her out loud, but I certainly make no move to deny it. And the possessive curve of Spike's hand, settling down over my left hip, is his own quiet way of affirming her, anyway.

I wouldn't even be surprised if he'd shot her one of those lightning quick winks of his.

"Great," Anya says lightly, seemingly satisfied with the way the meeting's gone, hopping down off her stool and clapping her hands together. She turns to her boyfriend. "Now that that's settled, can we go?"

"What are you talking about, nothing's been settled? I feel decidedly unsettled."

"I don't see why," she says casually, maybe a little frustrated, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "If they've already gone ahead with the claim, there's nothing you can do about it now."

It's true, and it's part of the reason I'd decided before coming here tonight that I wasn't going to let anything Xander, or any of them, said bother me.

Partly because there's nothing they can do about it now, and partly because, even if there was, I know in that familiar, deep down place that I'd wouldn't let them.

"Demon girl has a point," Spike says, removing his hand from my hip, letting go of my hand and stepping out from behind me. "'S already done."

Xander turns a hard glare on my vampire, his eyes shooting those proverbial daggers you always hear about, and my instinct to protect Spike has my hands curling into a fists at my sides.

It's the vampire in question that takes hold of my hand, soothing the tense muscles, coaxing my fingers to release. I'm so dazed, momentarily confused by the gesture that I almost miss the snarled words leaving my friends mouth now.

"Doesn't mean I have to be happy about it."

"You're right," I tell him honestly, keeping my voice casual, light. "You don't have to be happy about it. I didn't tell you so you could be happy about it. I told you for our benefit, not yours. We still don't know what all of it means. The Council didn't give us a whole lot to go on, and we'll need help figuring all that out. It'd be great if you guys were willing to do that. But you don't get me without him. That's not how this works."

He stares at me for a minute, blinking, like he has no idea what's just happened. Doesn't understand what it is I've just said.

A long moment passes between us as we look at each other before he finally sighs, his shoulders sagging in something that looks suspiciously like defeat.

"I don't like how this works," he admits, his voice quiet.

"I figured you wouldn't," I tell him, my voice equally quiet.

I half expect him to say something else, but he doesn't. Just gives me a sort of sad look and shakes his head, turning his back on me, murmuring a soft "let's go" to Anya. I watch them leave, a strange sort of calm I hadn't expected rolling over me as I do.

Because I don't feel like Xander's just walked away from me for good. His face had almost been resigned as he'd looked at me, like he was working through it in his head, that I'm no more likely to give up Spike because of his seeming disapproval than I had been to give up Angel those years ago.

He might not be happy about it, but he'd seen it on my face, how much I'd meant it when I'd told him he didn't have to be. That it didn't matter.

When Willow and Tara get up to leave a moment later, she gestures absently for me to follow them. I cast a glance at Spike, but his attention is elsewhere. On the book's Giles is stacking on the table top beside us.

I turn and follow the two witches, catching up with them on the other side of the open space, just below the steps.

"You know this is the definition of wig worthy," Willow says, the casual tone of her voice offsetting the not so casual weight of her words.

But they aren't judgmental, really. Just honest.

My lips twitch, and I find myself nodding, folding my arms up over my chest.

"I know for you it is," I agree, choosing my words carefully.

Willow seems to think about this for a minute, her green eyes luminous, earnest now as they search my face. After a minute she stops, glances down, then back up. Fixing me with a serious look.

It's a little like her resolve face, but less angry. More concerned.

She sighs, the words leaving her mouth in a whisper. "Are you happy?"

The question catches me a little off guard, but I don't hesitate to answer. Don't have to think twice about it before the word is leaving my lips.

"Yeah," I say simply. "I am."

She bites down on her lower lip, exchanging a brief glance with her girlfriend before looking back at me.

"You don't get a lot of that."

"No," I agree. "I don't."

She nods, looking thoughtful again.

A beat passes.

Then, "It's still weird."

I let myself fully smile this time, a short, low giggling sound bubbling up in my chest.

"It took me a while to get used to it, too," I admit, turning my eyes to Spike, who's murmuring something indistinguishable to Giles, who's slowly nodding his head at the vampire. I frown, wondering what it is they could be talking about.

I'll have to ask him later.

Turning back to look at Willow, meeting Tara's eyes briefly as I do, I say "I actually think it was harder on him than me."

Willow's brow furrows, trying to digest that information. "That's kind of…surprising."

I tilt my head in concession, raising my eyebrows. "He's kind of surprising."

"You love him, don't you," Tara says gently, thoughtfully. It isn't a question. More like it's something she simply knows, and wants the confirmation.

I nod, feeling the faint hint of a blush staining my cheeks.

"Kinda do."

Willow and Tara exchange a look, and then they turn to look at Spike.

He's leaning casually against the open training room doorway, arms folded, sparkling indigo eyes fixed on me from across the room. I don't have to know anything about vampire hearing to know that he's heard every word I've said.

It's written all over his face, the source of surging heat spreading through my veins now.

"We should go," Tara says, turning her eyes back to me, then to Willow. "I have that big test Monday I need to finish studying for."

Willow nods absently, turning her gaze away from my vampire and back to her girlfriend.

"Okay," she says lightly, then looks back to me. She smiles, a little tentatively, awkwardly, like she still isn't sure exactly what to think about everything. But she smiles. "We'll see you guys tomorrow."

It's as close as she's going to come to saying she understands, that she accepts it, out loud. And I feel the same gratefulness I'd felt for Giles, when he'd agreed to be on my side in all this. That even though it doesn't matter, wouldn't have made a difference either way, it's nice to know she's trying.

At least she's trying.

I watch the two witches leave the magic shop, hand in hand, and have to wonder if this hesitant acceptance might change a little the longer they have to think about what it is exactly they've found out tonight.

Not that I plan on worrying about that myself.

"So," Spike muses, watching me with hooded eyes when I turn back toward him, pushing himself off the wall and moving to meet me. "Whad'you reckon the odds are Harris tries to stake me in my sleep tonight?"

"Well," I muse in return, looking at him thoughtfully. "Since I'll be with you all night…" I come to stand right in front of him, tilting my head to the side. "I'm thinking, not great."

Spike smirks at me, a knowing quirk of his lips. But his eyes are impossibly warm. He lifts his hand up to my face and draws a silky, lingering line over my cheek with the pad of his thumb. His eyes drop down from mine, following the trail of his hand over my skin.

Then his eyes lift back up to mine, darker than they were a moment ago, and he whispers huskily, "Your place or mine?"


	33. Chapter 32

It had been Spike's suggestion to come back to the house after we'd left the Magic Box. When I'd asked him why, he'd just sort of shrugged and said he thought it made the most sense.

But I'd gotten the feeling that that wasn't the only reason.

We'd stopped off briefly at the Butcher shop, barely making it there before they'd closed for the night. To Mom's credit, she'd only looked a little stricken when I'd pulled the full containers out and placed several of them in the fridge.

I'd urged Spike to eat even though I hadn't been hungry. He'd declined at first, which I'd fully expected, but after reminding him that we'd be needing to go on patrol later he'd grudgingly agreed.

And then we'd come up here, to my room, waiting to head out on patrol until we'd be sure to run into some of the bigger nasties that go bump in the night.

I'm itching for a good slay.

It had been mostly quiet, though, since we'd come up here. I'd flipped idly through a magazine and Spike had taken up residence where he's currently resting now. I'd expected him to climb into bed, to lean against the headboard beside me, but he'd opted to drape himself over my legs instead; arms wrapped loosely around my waist, his eyes closed, cheek nuzzled into the fabric of my shirt over my stomach.

He'd melted against me almost instantly, tension from the night draining out of his shoulders as the blood had worked through his system. I'd sort of half assumed he'd fallen asleep.

The silence had been peaceful.

So it catches me off guard when he suddenly speaks.

"Where are you?" Spike murmurs lazily, his voice partially muffled where his head is turned, lips still pressing lightly against my clothed stomach.

I put the magazine down and gaze at him over the top of it. His eyes are still closed.

I frown. "Huh?"

Spike inhales slowly, the movement of his chest firm against the tops of my thighs, and opens his eyes.

"Can practically hear the wheels turnin' in your head, Slayer," he murmurs, turning his head so that his chin is pressing into my stomach instead of his cheek. His lips quirk in the beginnings of a smirk. "Bloody distractin'."

I make a face at him, closing the magazine and laying it flat on the floor beside the bed.

"Don't tell me you can feel when I'm thinking now, too."

Spike shakes his head, unwrapping his arms from around me and pushing his palms down flat into the bed on either side of me.

"Don't have to feel it, pet." He uses his leverage to haul himself up, surging up my body languidly before spinning around to drop onto his back beside me. The mattress squeaks below us with the weight change. I look at him and he shifts his eyes over to mine, still smirking. "You make these little humming sounds when you're all twisted up about somethin'."

My brow furrows.

Humming noises? I do that?

I've never noticed before.

No one else has noticed before, either.

"Oh," I murmur, scanning his face.

And here I thought I'd been peacefully stewing.

Spike nods, turning to face forward again, reaching both arms up to cross them behind his head as he leans back into the pillows.

"Not sure what you have to be frettin' about now, anyway," he muses, shifting his eyes back to mine again. "Went about as well as you'd expect." And I watch as he winces slightly, and the smirk falls a little. "Is your head still hurtin'?"

It is.

It's not what I'd been thinking about, but it is. Just faintly, every once and a while, I feel a dull ache at the bad of my skull. Like an echo of the initial fire burst of pain.

Still, at least an hour later.

It hadn't happened like that last time.

But that isn't what I'd been thinking about, so it isn't a lie when I shake my head and say no.

"It's not that," I murmur, looking at him. "And it's not…them, either." I sigh, pushing thought of Xander out of my head and shifting slightly so my shoulder is against the pillows instead of my back. "What were you talking to Giles about?"

Spike blinks at me, his body moving almost imperceptibly away from mine.

"What?"

But he asks it in a way that lets me know he knows exactly what I'm talking about. I can feel it, too. A tiny, anxious flutter. Not full blown anxiety, and not nerves, but something he isn't wanting to talk to me about.

I raise my eyebrows at him.

"When I was saying goodbye to Willow and Tara," I clarify, even though I know I don't need to. "You were saying something to Giles." A beat. "What was it?"

Spike drops the I don't know what you're talking about pretense immediately, switching tactics. I see the switch happen in his eyes. Going from playing dumb to feigning a casual dismissal.

He looks down, away from me, and waves his hand absently.

"'S nothin'," he says simply. "Not important."

And it might not be important, important. But he'd felt strongly enough about whatever it was to ask Giles about it, and to try and keep it from me now.

So I press forward.

"Had to be a little important," I tell him, resting my right elbow on the pillows beside me and leaning my chin into my hand. I tilt my head to the side. "Giles looked like he was agreeing with whatever it was."

Spike shrugs, still not looking at me.

"Just had a question, 's all."

When he doesn't make a move to continue on, I sigh, glancing up toward the ceiling.

"About?" I prompt, dropping my eyes back down to his face.

He's looking at me now.

"Buffy," he says sternly, like a warning, that edge to his voice that lets me know whatever it is he's thinking, whatever he'd mentioned to my Watcher, isn't something he feels like sharing with me.

At least not yet.

But my curiosity's already gotten the better of me. Has been getting the better of me since we'd left the Magic Box.

"Spike," I say back, mimicking his tone of voice and raising my eyebrows again.

We stare each other down for a minute. His azure eyes narrowed, lips pursed. A long, silent moment passes before he finally growls, muttering something about me being a stubborn bint, and looks away from me again.

"Just asked if he'd read anythin' in those books of his about the Slayer before you," he says stubbornly, gruffly, like admitting to having asked my Watcher about the connection is something embarrassing enough for him to keep hidden from me. He sighs, the rest of the words leaving on an exhale. "Or about the vamp that offed her."

I wince.

I don't know why. It isn't even close to being the crudest, most violent thing Spike's ever said to me. I think it might just be the casual way he says it. Offed. Maybe it's just that he's referencing her.

The Slayer that found herself in the same position I have now and had somehow gotten herself killed.

If Spike's noticed my reaction to her words, he doesn't say anything. And I don't feel anything coming from him other than a small swell of frustration. Probably at me having made him tell me.

I still don't see why it was worth hiding from me.

"Why?" I ask, turning my eyes back to his face, studying his profile.

"Why?" Spike repeats, chuckling softly and turning his eyes back to mine. He shrugs. "Bloke can't be curious?"

I frown at him, shaking my head. Knowing that isn't the only reason he'd asked and wondering why he's being so insistent on keeping it himself.

On keeping it from me.

I'd been wrong earlier when I'd thought the connection would make it impossible for us to keep things from each other. That isn't true. It just makes it more exasperating when we do.

"I didn't say that," I press again, leaning my chin out of my hand so I can awkwardly cross my arms over my chest. "Just wanted to know what prompted said curiousness."

"Curiosity," Spike says immediately, his eyes dark when they look back into mine. The corners are crinkling slightly, lips threatening to curl back into that smirk of his.

I blink at him, confused. "What?"

Spike chuckles, his cool demeanor from a moment ago all but gone as he twists his body toward mine, eyes sparkling.

"Curiousness isn't a word, kitten," he purrs, leaning in closer to me until his nose is touching the tip of mine. This close, I can't help but be completely distracted, taken in by his nearness, his scent. I feel my eyes flutter closed as he moves to the side, letting his nose graze along my cheekbone, moving up toward my ear.

The gasp passes my lips before I can stop it when he tugs gently on my earlobe and whispers, "Bloody menace to the English language, you are."

And even as distracted as I am, as easy as it would be to give in to the little tingles shooting down my spine, the sparks igniting across my skin, I'm aware enough of the emotion he's trying to hide from me to have the presence of mind to shake my head.

"You're being avoidy," I accuse breathlessly, keenly aware of his hand as he moves it to hip, glides it around my waist, draws little patterns on the bared skin of my lower back.

Spike chuckles in response, letting go of my ear to press a sultry, open mouthed kiss to the tender curve of my jaw below it.

"Also," he purrs, "not a word."

It takes way too much effort for me to plant my hands on his chest and shove him away from me, but I do it anyway.

And I don't care if avoidy isn't a word. It's what he's being. And it isn't like I don't know what he's doing. Using his lips and teeth, and those hands to distract me.

Which I admit, probably would work…if it weren't for that soft surge of anxiety I keep feeling from him.

Talk about being distracting.

And the look on Spike's face when he looks back at me now, my hands still firmly planted on his chest, tells me he knows exactly how aware I am of what he'd been trying to do.

To his credit, though, he looks entirely unapologetic.

That tongue curling smirk is firmly in place.

I try my hardest to frown at him, concentrating on lowering my heart rate and fixing him with a serious face.

"Are you going to tell me why you asked Giles about them or not?"

I don't what does it. It might be the tone of my voice, or it could be the fresh wave of irritation I feel flooding my cheeks with heat. Whatever it is, the air between us changes abruptly.

The smirk falls.

"Just…" He trails off, looking away from me. His jaw clenches. "I wanted to know if the two of 'em had history together, alright?" He looks back to me briefly, as though to make sure I'm hearing him, before glancing away again. "What made that Slayer choose that vampire. Why…" he shakes his head, sighing. "What made us different."

I'm confused.

I'm still frowning at him, my brow furrowed when I lean closer to him, tilting my head down to try and catch his eyes.

Have we not already been through this?

"I think we already know what made us different," I murmur softly, reaching out as if on instinct to draw the tips of my fingers over his cheek. Like I'm trying to get him to look at me.

The words have barely left my mouth before he's turning his eyes fully on me and asking, "You think it woulda been him?"

I blink, caught off guard, shifting back and shaking my head.

"Him who?"

Spike rolls his eyes, skirting around me so suddenly it nearly knocks me backward. "What d'you mean, him who?" He asks, his voice very low. His feet are flat on the floor before I can think, and he's suddenly standing, walking toward my closet before whirling back to face me. "Captain Forehead. Your sodding poofter of an ex, pet. D'you think it woulda been him instead of me?"

Oh.

Oh.

This is the truth, then. This is why he'd asked Giles. This is why he'd wanted to keep it from me.

To avoid having to ask this.

I don't answer him right away. Keeping my eyes on his, I shift my own body over, swinging my legs over the side of the bed to put my feet flat on the floor.

"How long have you been sitting on that one?" I ask after a minute,

"Few days."

Since the Council showed up.

Since they'd assumed it was Angel automatically. And so had my friends, tonight.

Even Giles had mentioned it initially. Wondering why it would have been Spike and not Angel.

It's no secret to me that Angel and Spike dislike each other. That there are years and years of pent up frustration and hatred there between them that actually have very little to do with me. The jealousy I feel emanating from my vampire whenever anyone mentioned the brunette is strong, sure, but it isn't the only emotion there. There's a depth of hatred, too. Anger. Pain.

And I'm not quite self absorbed enough to think that all of that could be for me. Over me.

I know there are things I don't know.

Things I'd decided a while ago I didn't think I wanted to know.

Things…details about his life, his unlife, early on. When it was the four of them. Darla and Drusilla and Angelus. Things that I'm just starting to realize…how important they'd been, just how lasting an impact they'd had on the bleached blonde standing in front of me. Experiences that are just as much a apart of who he is now as the man he'd been before. The master vampire standing before me wasn't always that.

He was molded. Mentored. Influenced.

There's still so much of him that feels human. Even without the soul, it's there. I see it. See more of it every day.

What might he have been like if he'd been born to a different sire? Grandsire?

I don't notice how long I've been sitting in silence until Spike barks an impatient "well" in my direction, jarring me, reminding me of the question he's just asked.

Do I think it would have been Angel? It's not an easy question to answer. And it depends a little on when we're talking about. If I'd had my run in with Dracula when we'd been together? My first year in Sunnydale, before Spike had barreled into my life at all? Before I started dating Riley? In between that time once Angel had left and before Spike had returned?

I'm not sure what answer he's expecting from me. So I offer the truth.

"I think…" I begin slowly, dropping my gaze away from him. "That if it was going to be him it would've been." And I think that it's true. Regardless of the time, regardless of the circumstances. "I mean, I don't know for sure how that part works…but I chose you."

Spike nods, but the anxious pooling in my stomach, the aching anger blazing behind my eyes doesn't calm.

He takes a step closer to me.

"And you don't think you woulda chosen him, if things had been different?"

We've been through this partially already. That…proximity probably hadn't had anything to do with why my demon chose Spike's to connect to. It could have just as easily chosen Dracula's', if that had been the case.

But I understand why he's asking. And again, I find myself somehow understanding just enough to recognize it isn't just about me.

"I don't know," I say softly, honestly. Because I don't. Not for sure. And we'll never really know, I don't think. I've started to give up hope that we'll ever have all the why's and how's figured out on this. But I mean it when I look back at him, fixing those fathomless eyes with mine and say, "But I really don't think so."

And I really, really don't. I might not know for sure why it is the Slayer in me chose Spike, but I know it did, and I know there's got to be some reason for that…and it probably goes deeper than my nineteen year old brain has the capacity to grasp.

I'd meant it in the cemetery, too. Just before we completed the claim. I'd told him it was always going to be him…and I'd known. With complete certainty, in that moment, I'd known.

Known but not understood.

Maybe understanding it all is over rated.

I watch the hard line of Spike's lips soften, his eyes growing warm again as he looks at me.

"Guess that'll have to do," he says softly, his voice still low, but gentle now. That silky rumble that twists my stomach up for entirely different reasons.

I offer him a small smile when he approaches me, dropping down beside me on the bed and leaning his shoulder into mine.

I return the gentle pressure, looking up at him through my lashes. "I think it's pretty obvious that we kind of won the demon connection lottery."

Spike smirks, letting out a short laugh, expelling air through his nose and turning his eyes to my desk, my vanity, across the room from us.

"You think so, do you?"

I nod, even though I know he isn't looking at me.

"Majorly lucked out." And he does turn to look at me then, brow furrowed. An unspoken question rolling off him. I shrug.

"What if I'd run into Dracula a couple years earlier?" I ask, searching his eyes with mine, thinking about what might have happened if I'd decided to go for a taste test the year Spike first showed up with Drusilla. Or when he came back for that love spell. Or the Gem.

I close my eyes, shaking my head.

"I don't know if either of us would be here right now."

Spike's response is immediate. Soft, low, directly in my ear.

"I do," he whispers, ghosting a kiss to the tender skin beside my ear.

I open my eyes, turning to look at him. I raise my eyebrow in silent question, and he just nods.

His eyes are impossibly blue this close to mine, and torn. Something between that familiar warmth and a cold, distant memory. Something he hasn't wanted to share with me before.

"You'd still be here, luv."

And I don't know what to say. Literally, speechless, completely lost for words. Both with the knowledge of what he's just insinuated and with that look on his face. All sharp angles and gentle awe.

I feel like I'm frozen to the spot.

"Even then?" I finally manage to ask, my voice quiet, surprisingly hoarse.

Spike turns away from me.

"Even then," he agrees, equally quiet. And then he sighs, shaking his head. "Didn't know it at the time, o'course. Spent the better part of the last three years denyin' it. Even with Dru…" He trails off, looking back at me. His mouth is curved in a soft, wry smile. "Just thought she'd finally gone completely off her bird, you know?"

"Dru?" I ask, voice a little stronger now, still trying to process everything he's saying to me.

What it means.

Spike nods, his eyes scanning my face as he explains.

"Mumblin' things to me about…sunshine, and ashes. Bein' all covered with you. Regular nutter, she was. But she knew." I watch as his gaze moves from my hair, to my cheeks, to my lips, up to the little bump in my nose, before finally settling on my eyes again."'S why she left."

I suddenly find myself replaying any and every interaction I'd had with Spike since that first night in the alley behind The Bronze. The very first time I saw him step out of the shadows.

How many times had we faced each other after that? How many times, even before he sought me out, came to me for that uneasy alliance, had we had opportunities to kill each other and hadn't?

And even after he'd left Sunnydale, supposedly to never come back…he had.

"And why you came back here," I murmur, slow understanding smoothing the furrowed lines of my brow.

Yes, he'd come back. Two…even three separate times afterwards. Came right to me every time, found me every time, one way or another.

"Told myself it was to take you out," Spike tells me, the bluntness of his words tempered by the gentleness in his voice. "Snap your neck, drain you dry. Get you out of my buggering system once and for all. But—"

"You hesitated." I finish for him, already thinking about that day. He'd found the Gem and come straight for me, that completely exhilarating and horrifyingly close fight on the quad. "The day we fought outside, and you had the Gem." My eyes search his. "You had a chance to kill me and you hesitated."

At the time, I'd thought it was arrogance. That he'd take his time to kill me, make sure I felt the sting of his fangs, know exactly which vampire it was that had finally beaten me.

At the time, I remember thinking that he'd have won, if he hadn't hesitated. If he hadn't been so incredibly sure of himself.

But it hadn't been arrogance. Not really.

Whether either of us recognized it at the time or not, it had been something much bigger.

"Wanted to kill you," Spike murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine, never shying away from me as he admits it. "Wanted to want to kill you." He reaches out, cupping my chin in his hand, sweeping his thumb over my lower lip. "Couldn't tell the bloody difference."

We stare at each other a moment longer as he drops his hand away, and I have to look away from him finally.

Biting down into the inside of my cheek, digesting everything he's just told me. Admitted. Knowing as strongly as I seem to know everything else about him, how difficult it had been for him to admit it all.

How vehemently he must have denied out. How badly he hadn't wanted it to be true.

And I think of my own interactions with him. True, I'd had chances to dust him. I'd had more than enough chances to dust him, and I never had.

But I don't know if that was…love. I don't know if it was because I'd had feelings for him that I hadn't understood.

I think I always sort of thought it was a hesitance to end the rivalry. He'd always been the only opponent I'd ever faced who'd beaten me. Who'd gotten so close.

"I can't…" I sigh, forcing myself to meet his eyes. "I don't know if I can say the same."

Spike surprises me by smiling. Not a smirk, not a wry little half smile, ut a real smile. It reaches his eyes, making the blue twinkle and reminding me how blindingly beautiful he is.

"Don't have to," he tells me softly, reaching down to pick my hand up in his larger one. He looks down at our entwined hands. "Didn't tell you all that to hear how you felt the same, pet." His thumb starts to brush back and forth over the back of my hand. "Doesn't seem to me it matters much how you felt then, anyway."

I stare at him, my eyes glued to his, watching him stare at the movement of his thumb.

"What matters to you?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

Wanting to hear him say it, anyway.

He knows it, too. Can see it in the way his lips quirk when he turns his eyes back up to mine and says, "How you feel now."

I reach for him without thinking, without pause, using my free hand to cup the side of his face and directing it fully toward mine.

"I love you," I say, my voice strong and even.

I love Spike.

I don't know how it happened. Don't know when. But it's true, has never been more true than it feels like it is in this moment.

And I've said it. All of it. All the words, in a row, in their correct order.

I love you.

Spike keeps his eyes on mine as he reaches his free hand up, covering mine with his and gently pulling it away from his cheek. He takes it and places my palm flat against his chest instead.

Over his heart.

"And I love you," he says back, his voice equally even.

I'm not prepared for it. The full rush of warmth, the incredible, mind numbing, bone melting surge of what can only be love pouring off him, through him, into me.

There's desire there, too. As present and strong as the other, butterflies in my stomach, waves of tingling heat to my core.

I don't know if it's his, or if it's mine, or if it's both of ours.

I don't really think it matters.

He closes the small remaining distance between us, covering my mouth with his, claiming my lips in a kiss that takes my breath away. And when his hands find my hips, exerting pressure, lowering my body back down to the bed so that I'm pinned beneath his body and the mattress, I let him.

Let him pull my shirt off.

Let him press warm, wet kisses to my bare skin.

Let him murmur sweet, hot words into my hair, against my lips, as his body makes love to mine.

And the distant thought strikes me, over and over again, in time with the luxurious pulse of our hips. The thundering of the blood in my veins.

In time with the words leaving my lips.

That yes. _Yes_.

It was always going to be him.

This is the first time we've patrolled together since completing the connection. And it shows.

I feel it. I know he does, too.

It's…different. The way I feel stalking through the cemetery tonight. My eyes are clearer, my hearing's better. Every little shift, I notice. The rustling of the breeze through damp blades of grass, Leaves brushing against tomb stones. The soft, earthy sound of dirt being waded through. Dug up.

The second the fledge claws his way out of the ground, I'm there. Watching. Waiting.

Driven by an impulse I don't quite recognize, I don't wait for him to get completely out before I lean forward, wrap my hand around his wrist and yank him up to his feet.

He stares at me for a second, full vamped, shaking the dirt out of his hair.

"Uh, thanks," he murmurs, looking around, no doubt wondering what it is a human girl is doing waiting around the grave of someone who's been freshly turned.

"Don't mention it," I say lightly, not bothering to reach for my stake. It's still safely tucked in the waistband of my sweats where Spike had placed it earlier, dropping to press a kiss to my bare shoulder blade as he'd done so.

And I can feel him now. Somewhere on the other side of the cemetery, making his own slow sweep.

If he's found anything yet, it hasn't been anything that's given him any real trouble. I would have felt that.

So I'm not overly concerned now as I spin around, launching my leg out, connecting a vicious kick to the fledgling vampire's chest and sending him flying back several feet.

He lands on his back but is up again in a blink, falling into an instinctive predatory stance and snarling at me.

When he rushes me a moment later, I have no trouble dancing out of his way. He sails passed me, my forearm flying out to catch him across the back, sending him stumbling forward.

We go back and forth like this for a few minutes. The fledgling getting more and more infuriated with each passing second, with each kick or punch he fails to land.

I'm toying with him. Playing.

I probably shouldn't be.

Finally, after another couple minutes, I reach back for my stake and prepare to put the poor thing out of his misery.

And then it happens.

The splitting headache, the sharpest stab of pain I've ever felt, rocketing through my head so fast it sends me flying forward, my body instinctively curling in on itself.

My hands fly to my head, cradling it between my palms as I cry out. The scream is loud, long and strangled.

I recognize the pain immediately, instantly. Stronger than either time has been before.

The chip. Somewhere, on the other end of the cemetery, something's just caused Spike's chip to go off.

And in a bad, bad way.

Still clutching at my skull, another powerful shock hits me out of nowhere. The first wave hasn't even begun to recede yet.

I drop to my knees, gasping for air, already having forgotten about the fledgeling to my back.

No room in my head left to feel, to think about anything other than the pain.

I only remember he's there when I feel his hands come down hard on my shoulders. I'm dizzy, short of breath, in too much pain to put up any kind of a fight when his hands close around my shoulders and he hauls me to my feet, spinning me around and diving for my throat in one blindingly quick movement.

I have just enough presence of mind bring my hand up, blocking my neck and my face with the underside of my forearm awkwardly.

It works, sort of. Keeps the fledge's fangs from my throat, but gets them lodged in the tender skin of my arm instead.

Confused, snarling wildly, the vampire rips his fangs out of my arm and lunges for my neck again.

I'm ready this time, my head not as fogged out with pain, pulling back and plunging my stake as hard as I can into his chest. I don't let go until he explodes before me, dusty pieces getting caught on the breeze blowing by.

And then I sink to my knees, my head still throbbing, the wound in my arm open and gushing blood. I can feel the sticky liquid, trailing hot paths down my arm, the palm of my hand, my fingers.

I try and wrap my head around what's just happened, but can't. Not yet. I'm dazed. My head is aching, ears ringing. I've never come that close. Never. Not even that night last month when I'd been stabbed.

My legs are shaking, whether from fear or pain, I don't know.

It hurts.

Everything hurts.

That's why my first reaction is to fight when I feel the arms come around me. I lash out, reaching my non-wounded arm around and trying to connect with the solid mass behind me.

Someone's saying my name, over and over again. More than one person.

But I don't recognize it at first. I thrash around, blood soaking into my shirt, into my pants. The scent is stronger than anything else. That cold, metallic smell.

I dimly wonder how much blood I'm losing.

"Buffy, luv, please," the voice nearest me says, low and urgent in my ear. "Calm down."

Spike.

Oh, God, Spike. For a moment my relief is stronger than the pain as I twist in his arms, focus in on his face.

I'd almost forgotten. In the wake of the pain, the close call with that fledgling, I'd forgotten the reason for the pain in the first place.

His chip. It had gone off. Something had made it go off.

"Your chip," I murmur lazily, the words sounding weird, slurred on my tongue.

"Shh," he soothes, pulling me more firmly into the circle of his arms, leaning back against something.

A head stone, maybe.

I don't know. Don't want to take my eyes off his face to find out.

"Is she alright?"

The other voice again. It's fuzzy, a little muffled with the distance, but I recognize it as belonging to Giles.

Giles. In the cemetery?

Spike whips his head up.

"Does she bloody look alright to you?" He snarls, yellow eyes narrowed, fangs gleaming in the moonlight.

His lip is split. I can see it clearly from the angle I'm sitting, the thin trickle of blood forming at the corner of his mouth.

"What happened?" I ask, directing the question at Spike, blinking, fighting to clear my blurred vision.

He turns back to me, frowning instantly.

I hadn't even noticed I'd been crying until he brushes his thumb over the tender skin below my eye, drawing the salted moisture away.

"Was hoping' you could tell us," he says softly, shifting back slightly. His demon melts away, glittering gold fading into midnight blue as he scans my face. Probably looking for further signs of injury.

"No," I say adamantly, cradling my bitten arm against my chest for support, "not with me. With you." I push myself out of his arms and onto the grass so I can see him better, reaching my free hand out to touch my finger tips to his temple. "Your chip."

I'm hardly thinking about me right now, the pain in my arm numbing. I realize that there's a possibility it could be going numb from the loss of blood, but don't really care.

If there's something in this cemetery, some kind of demon that Spike can't fight for some reason, I need to know. Now.

"Buffy, we need to get you inside." It's Giles again, and I turn my head instinctively toward his voice. "It isn't safe for you to be out here bleeding like that."

And I see him, now. Stepping closer to me as my eyes focus in on him. He looks particularly unhappy. A little of that Ripperish glint in his eye, his lips in a hard line.

Whatever happened, whatever he was doing here…obviously somewhere with Spike, he isn't happy about it.

Or about the state his Slayer is currently in.

I'm about to open my mouth and ask again, what had happened, what exactly is going on.

And then I see Xander, standing several feet behind him, and the question dies on my lips.

He's looking very sheepish standing there, arms folded. A steadily swelling eye and a very bloody nose.

I think I know where my headache came from.

And I don't know who I'm more disappointed with. Them, or me.

I shake my head, starting to push myself shakily back onto my feet, expecting and ready for the pair of hands that wrap themselves around my upper arms to help me up.

I turn back to Xander, fixing him with a hard look. As hard a look as I can, considering the waves of pain still radiating through me.

Those other punches Spike had thrown must have been nothing. It had hurt me when he'd hit Giles, sure, but it hadn't lasted. Hadn't felt that one in my bones the way I still feel it now.

"What are you even doing here?" I ask him. "Shouldn't you be at home?"

He's having trouble meeting my eyes.

Good.

"I was looking for Spike," Xander admits, his voice quiet. He shifts from foot to foot, bringing a hand up and wiping the blood away from his nose. "I just wanted to talk."

Beside me, Spike scoffs. I don't blame him.

If the pattern of bruises cropping up along his jaw are any indication, it doesn't look like either of them did much talking at all.

Talk.

Right.

"And?" I prompt, looking back and forth between the bleeding vampire at my side and the bleeding brunette in front of me. "Did you two…say everything you needed to?"

Xander refuses to look at Spike, just barely managing to finally make eye contact with me.

"I didn't come here to fight," he insists, the blood trickling down his nose making the words seem a little silly.

"Then why did you come here?" I ask, still cradling my arm, still feeling my blood soaking through my jacket, through my t-shirt.

"Yes, I'm curious about that as well," Giles murmurs, his arms folded over his chest. He casts a poignant look at Spike, and then back to Xander. "Because the fighting that the two of you clearly did do nearly got Buffy killed."

Xander blanches, paling visibly as his eyes shoot toward Giles.

"What?"

My Watcher reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a thick white handkerchief and handing it to me. He indicates for me to use it to wrap my wound before turning cold, grey eyes on Xander.

"You saw it happen not three hours ago, Xander but for your sake I'll explain it again. When Spike's chip fires, it causes Buffy a great deal of pain. I'm assuming it was that level of pain that kept her from preventing that bite." He inclines his head toward my arm, the white handkerchief already stained crimson where I've tied it. "I would also assume the vampire in question hadn't been aiming for her arm."

I feel three pairs of eyes turn on me, and I glance down at the ground.

"That is what happened," Giles prompts me coolly, the tenseness in his voice not directed at me, but to the blonde and brunette on either side of him. "Isn't it?"

I clear my throat.

"Yeah," I murmur, tucking my arm closer to my side. "That's what happened."

I don't want to see the stricken look on Spike's face, but I don't have to see it to know that it's there. To feel the fresh surge of horror shuddering through him as the words Giles has said settle on his shoulders.

Cool fingers wrap around my wrist, pulling my bitten arm away from my side and into his hands. Like somehow holding it will make it go away.

"Oh, Buffy," he breathes, still holding my arm reverently. When I look up at him, his eyes are down, fixated on the blood staining the white makeshift bandage.

"It hurt my head," I explain lamely, not telling him anything he doesn't already know. "It was…worse this time. I didn't…I couldn't fight back."

Spike closes his eyes at my words, his hands tightening on my arm.

"I didn't realize," Xander's mumbling, his voice strained. "I didn't think—"

"No," Giles agrees hotly, "you bloody well didn't."

"It's that bad?" He asks me, his voice shaken. Like he really hadn't thought about it, our being physically connected hadn't occurred to him.

Even after what he'd seen earlier tonight.

He'd been too distracted by Spike's reaction to me, probably. More concerned about our obvious feelings for each other than the clearly very painful connection between the two of us.

The vampire's eyes open then, and he turns a scathing look in my friend's direction.

"Because I make it look like it's a sodding walk in the park?"

"No," Xander shoots back, sending a nasty glare toward Spike. The effect is somewhat ruined by his eye, which is getting close to swollen shut. "I just never cared if you were in pain, Bleach Boy."

Spike growls, his eyes flashing yellow for brief moment as he lets go of my arm, takes a step forward.

"But you care if she is, yeah?" He asks, indicating to me with a tip of his head.

Xander glares at him again.

"Of course I do," he says quickly, dismissively. Like it should be so obvious. "Buffy's my friend. I care about what happens to her." And then he pauses, thinking about what he's just said, maybe wondering what I am. Why his words and his actions are big with the not being on the same track.

He looks back at me, then down at the grass.

"I just…I didn't…I never would have…" He trails off, turning big, sad eyes on mine. "I didn't know the connection was that strong."

Yes you did, I want to scream at him, but part of me realizes that it wouldn't be quite true. Sure, he'd been there while we were talking about it. Had seen the connection in action. Had heard the words leave my lips.

But he hadn't really listened. He'd had his mind made up when I set foot in the Magic Box, knew exactly what he'd say, what he though, how he wanted to handle it.

Nothing I'd actually said would have changed it.

"You didn't want to know," I tell him, thinking about his words to me in the Magic Box, how quick he was to dismiss it all. Both the connection, and the feelings we have for each other. I sigh, tucking my bandaged arm back into my ribcage. "You should go home, Xander."

And he does, without an argument. Without another murmur of apology, or understanding.

I don't want an apology from him right now, anyway. Don't want him to hollowly tell me that he understands now, that it's clicked for him. Sure, I might want one eventually.

But I want one when he's ready to mean it.

Maybe tomorrow.

"Should get you inside, pet," Spike murmurs, drawing my attention back to him. Pain and frustration rolling off him in waves.

"What were you doing out here, anyway?" I ask, mimicking the same question I'd asked Xander not ten minutes before.

"Yes. I was actually coming to speak with you, Buffy."

In the middle of the night.

In the cemetery.

During patrol.

My Slayer senses start to tingle, picking up on something seriously wrong.

"And it…couldn't wait until tomorrow?" I ask hesitantly, dropping my arm down, suddenly uncaring about the pain still shooting through it.

I unconsciously reach for Spike. His hand slips into mine smoothly, easily, without a word passing between us.

Giles clears his throat. "I'm afraid not."

My stomach bottoms out. Any remnant of pain I'd had, any pounding in my head, vanishes. Replaced with an icy kind of chill that I only ever get when Giles is looking at me this way. His eyes clear, lips set. Pain lurking somewhere behind the rims of his glasses.

It's the same way he'd looked at me when I'd finally figured out about the prophecy. The one saying I was destined to die.

I swallow hard, fingers tightening around Spike's for whatever support, whatever soothing touch he can offer me.

"What's going on?" I ask, dreading the answer as soon as the words have left my lips.

Giles glances toward Spike, then back down to me, and shakes his head once.

Like we can't talk about it here.

Like whatever it is isn't something we should say out loud.

He sighs audibly, the words coming out a tense whisper in the quiet of the night.

"I think you both should come with me."


	34. Chapter 33

"You wanna tell me what the big up is here?" I ask, stepping into the Magic Box behind Giles, Spike close behind me, and only dimly wondering why it is we're here and not at his apartment.

The whole way over here, my brain has been a jumble. All the possible reasons he could have had to track us down in the cemetery. During patrol. Why he'd wanted us out of there so badly.

Spike had done his best to relax me, rubbing soothing circles into my hand, my shoulder, the back of my neck as we'd walked, but it hadn't done much good. His emotions are as tumultuous as mine are, just for different reasons.

He's still blaming himself for what happened with that fledgling. Even now, I can practically feel his eyes burning into the crimson stained handkerchief as I come to a stop beside the research table.

I look down at the wound, too, taking in the damage. It doesn't hurt that much anymore, but it's obvious by the amount of red and the lack of white that I've lost more blood than I'd initially thought.

I grimace down at my arm, reaching my hand out to untie the white cotton and murmur, "And also possibly get me some real bandages?"

Spike steps up beside me, immediately reaching for my arm. Batting my hand away lightly and pulling away the stained cloth.

"Bit curious myself," he agrees, looking at Giles and not at me as he carefully raises the bite wound to his mouth and closes his lips around it.

The relief is instant, the stinging pain I hadn't even noticed had been present fading away at the touch of his cool tongue. When he pulls his mouth away, the wound's been closed.

I guess that'd be a nix on the bandages.

"Never mind," I whisper, my eyes meeting Spike's as he gently returns my arm to my side. There's a different kind of heat in his gaze as he looks at me now. Different than before. Not quite jealousy, but something related to it. Maybe because I'd been bitten by a vampire that isn't him.

I'm not sure.

I force myself to turn back toward Giles, breaking the small moment that's passing between us in favor of figuring out this thing that's wigging Giles.

"What are we doing here?" I ask, sinking down onto the upholstered bench and resting my hands in my lap.

If Giles has noticed, or wants to comment on, the whole Spike just having licked my arm wound thing…he doesn't say anything. He isn't even looking at me, his eyes already scanning over a page of one of the book's left behind by the Council.

It's dusty and leather-bound, and looks a lot like the watcher's diaries I'd spent so much time months ago pouring over, but that's all I can really tell in the dim lamp light.

"I found something while I was researching that question you asked me," Giles says, leafing through the pages, not looking at tier of us but inclining his head toward Spike.

He seems to find what he's looking for, because he stops thumbing the pages and stares ahead, his lips forming a hard line and a glazed, worried look moving across his features.

My stomach twists.

Spike shifts over beside me, resting his knuckles on the research table and leaning toward Giles and the book in his hand.

I watch as he tilts his head to the side.

"Guessin' by the look on your face it wasn't all daffodils and teddy bears."

"No," Giles agrees, looking up at the vampire, "it wasn't. The, uh…couple that came before you? That Slayer's watcher…had a theory about the connection."

"Oh, good," I grumble, wondering what kind of theory could have been so important that Giles had sought us out in the cemetery to discuss it with us. "Another one."

Giles nods, glancing briefly at me before turning his eyes back down to the page. "His theory revolved around the idea that this connection is somehow…orchestrated. Given it's inclination toward the unnatural," he looks up, glancing back and forth between the two of us as thought to explain, "a Slayer choosing to mate with a vampire, he believed it was some demonic construct designed by the ancients to bring about something…dark." He sets the leather-bound faded diary down. "And extremely powerful."

So bad. This is bad news.

"I'm guessing he didn't mean the good kind of powerful," I mumble, biting down on the inside of my cheek and looking up at my Watcher through my lashes. "Like Diana Ross?"

"I'm afraid not," Giles says, his eyes unreadable from behind his glasses. Voice somber.

Whatever it is exactly he's read, it's thrown him for a loop. Still, I have to wonder why he's taking this so seriously. Is there something he isn't telling us?

And why exactly does our connection seem to automatically equal doom and destruction according to everyone that isn't us? I mean I get that it's…wiggy. And yeah, it's all with the being totally rare. And we're still unsure on exactly what to expect, or what it means.

But really.

Everyone must be burning tons of calories with all the conclusions they've been jumping to.

"But…" I begin, mulling it over, glancing toward Spike. "Why did he think that? Was there a reason?" I turn back to Giles. "I mean, just because his Slayer ended up dead doesn't mean—"

Giles shakes his head, stopping me in mid sentence. He has that look on his face again.

I find myself swallowing hard.

"It wasn't the fact that she was killed that made him question the purpose of the connection, Buffy." His eyes shift from mine pointedly over to Spike's, growing cold. "It was the vampire she was connected to."

I frown, blinking. Still not getting it. "What?"

"He gives some details here…about her vampire," Giles says, picking the journal back up again and scanning quickly down the page. "He was…wild. Unpredictable. Almost a legend in his time." His eyes flit up to mine, widening meaningfully. "She'd barely escaped with her life the couple times they'd come face to face prior to the connection."

Spike and I turn to glance at each other at the same time, his eyes holding the same look of cautious understanding that I'm sure mine do.

Wild, unpredictable, legendary.

Okay. So, yeah…maybe that sounds a little familiar. Eerily familiar.

But it doesn't Mr. Doom and Destruction is right.

I tear my eyes away from Spike's, pushing myself to a standing position, needing to move. Needing to think about what Giles is trying to say. "And her Watcher thought the connection was designed that way?" I ask, stepping a ways back from the research table and putting some distance between me and the what the books say.

Giles nods, never taking his eyes off mine.

"He seemed to think that, had his Slayer survived the claim," he emphasizes the word, bracing one hand on the table top." The demon connection would have brought about something unspeakable."

My stomach twists again, and I find myself folding my arms over my waist protectively. The bite wound on my arm stings a little when it brushes against my coat.

I don't understand. Don't know what about all this was so urgent.

And it doesn't make sense to me. Not after everything that's happened between Spike and I. How…nice things have been. Up until this point I don't think it had ever occurred to me that the connection could be anything…bad. Wrong. It's just always felt so natural.

So good.

"As in…what comes from the connection itself is the Big Bad?" I ask, my voice sounding small, hollow. "Or just…that it could be like a catalyst for something else?"

At this, Giles grimaces.

I know this face, too.

The _I don't have the answer to that question_ face. I don't see it often, so when I do, I recognize it immediately.

And suddenly the knots in my stomach start to dissipate.

He clears his throat, looking down at the journal again and says, "He didn't expound upon that."

Frustration. It hits me hard, instantly, right between the eyes. I can feel it flushing my chest. Strong, immediate and stormy, it flares in my cheeks, blazes hot behind my eyes.

And I know that it's all mine. That Spike hasn't quite realized what it is that I have.

For all the talk Giles has done about being with us, that he's going to support us…at the first sign of something negative, something detailing how catastrophic the connection between Spike and I could be, he jumps ship.

He panics.

And all without any real _good_ reason.

"That's it?" I ask heatedly, feeling the muscles in my jaw clench. "That's all this guy says? That if she'd survived, the connection might have led to some vague big nasty that some vague ancient demons might have cooked up before the beginnig of time?"

My words hang in the air between the three of us for a minute. Heavy, loaded with implication. How absolutely ridiculous it all sounds now that I've laid it bare before him.

And all the anger I'd thought I'd passed over, all the rage and disappointment I'd felt for Giles when I'd found about him having gone behind my back to the Council, the Council, comes roaring back with a vengeance.

"Well…yes," Giles agrees after a moment, looking like he's about to step closer to me. "But—"

"This." I reach across the table and pick up the diary, waving it around. "This," I repeat, slamming it down as hard as I can on the table. The sound echoes through the room. "Is what couldn't wait until tomorrow?" I don't give him any time to respond before I'm talking again, turning my back on him and walking toward the counter. "God, Giles, you scared the bejeezus out of me." I whirl back around, shaking my head, thinking about how worried I'd been the entire way here. Thinking about how angry I am that even when he says he trusts me, trusts us…when he acts like he's willing to defend us in front of everyone, it means so little?

I fix Giles with a hard look, my chest suddenly heaving. I've halfway forgotten the pain in my arm. "I thought this was something really serious."

His eyes flash. I watch as he steps around the edge of the table and approaches me, only stopping when Spike suddenly straightens to partially block his path.

He doesn't know why he's doing it, I don't think. Isn't sure why all this pent up rage is making it's way out now, why I was feeling anxious not thirty seconds ago and now I all I'm seeing is red.

But Spike steps in front of Giles, anyway. And the show of solidarity warms me in ways I don't think even I understand.

Giles, on the other hand, merely seems annoyed. He remains where he is, doesn't try and push passed Spike…maybe because of the possibility of the chip firing, I'm not sure. I watch as he reaches toward the table and picks the diary up again.

"Buffy," he says sternly, eyeing my from over Spike's shoulder. "This is serious. We've been looking for answers for weeks now about what this connection might mean, what its purpose might be."

He's right. That's where we'd started with all this. The how's and the why's and the what's had all seemed so important early on, especially before we'd completed the claim. But I can't shake the feeling that he'd called us here to detract from what it is we're sharing, not to help us explain it.

Like he's still grasping at straws to denounce it, even though it's too late for that.

And we all know it.

"I know that," I agree, the rage lessening just a little even as I'm still feeling tense, the muscles in my shoulders coiled. "But that…" I trail off, indicating the book in his hands, tightening my arms around my waist. "Giles, it's just a theory."

Spike looks over at me, murmuring his agreement. "And a pretty damn vague one at that."

I can tell by the look in his eyes that he understands now. Knows what I know, realizes why the change in my emotions had been so swift.

And it's his frustration I'm feeling now, multiplied on top of mine.

My vampire keeps his eyes on me and backs away from my Watcher, moving so his body is closer to mine than the other man's.

Another unspoken show of togetherness.

It doesn't go unnoticed by Giles. His shoulder sag a little, not quite in defeat, but in something close to it. He crosses his own arms, leans his hip against the side of the table and focuses his eyes down on a spot on the ground.

"You don't think it important to treat every possibility seriously?" He asks me, the tone of his voice letting me know exactly how childish he believes I'm being.

My nails dig a little tighter into my sleeves, my right hand carefully avoiding the torn shirt fabric on my left arm.

"I didn't say that," I say, dropping my voice down low.

"No," Giles agrees too quickly, his voice too calm. He raises his eyes back up to mine. "Just not the possibilities that could mean the connection is a problem."

We stare each other down for a very long moment. And I know that he has a point. That even if his logic is weak, even if the theory he's so overly concerned with is vague, he's proven a point just now.

That I'm not willing to consider that the thing happened between Spike and I could be bad. Could possibly be an issue.

Whether that was his intention or not, I don't know. He might like me to believe it is. But my own pride won't allow me to admit it. Not out loud.

So I settle instead for a long drawn out sigh, shaking my head, breaking eye contact with him.

"Giles," I begin, closing my eyes. "This guy…he was just a Watcher." I open them again. "And it's just a theory. He had no way of knowing what would have actually happened." I unfurl my arms, gesturing toward the book still in his hand. "It'd be like… _you_ coming up with a theory about us."

He frowns at me, brow furrowing, but his body language shifts slightly too. He doesn't feel quite as hostile as he mumbles, "Thanks very much."

Spike chuckles.

"Besides," I continue, ignoring them both. "We completed the claim almost a week ago and see?" I throw both hands up, gesturing around the room as though expecting the sky to start falling. "Nothing apocolypty has happened."

Giles just shakes his head, looking from my face to Spike's. "Neither of you is concerned about this?"

Spike smirks, glances at me, and the glint in his eyes still isn't quite amused. More drawn.

He shakes his head, turning back to Giles. "Whole thing's a bit of a stretch, Rupert."

I nod, making a small noise of agreement and stepping back closer to the table.

"I kind of think I'd know by now if I was turning into something unspeakably evil," I concede, my voice lighter than the words should probably allow for. I look at Spike, then shrug. "Or if the Slayer in me suddenly wanted to go all world endy."

Giles sinks down into a chair and sighs, pulling his glasses off with one hand and pinching the bridge of his nose with the other. His eyes are closed.

Like he's trying to discipline an unruly child, or trying to teach someone a lesson that they seem to keep forgetting. Not angry, and not cold. But…disappointed.

I frown.

"The connection isn't one sided, Buffy," he reminds me softly, sounding very tired now. " _Two_ halves." His eyes open. "Two."

And it's always going to come back to this. Giles might love me, might want to protect me above everything else, but it's always going to be Spike. Will always come back to him to being able to trust him. Not feeling like he has any reason to.

Even if he and I eventually become one and the same.

"It's not my demon you're worried about," I say, my voice quiet but hard with understanding.

"The demon that lives inside you is governed by something other than blood lust," Giles says, his voice quiet.

And he doesn't say it. Doesn't even hint at it. But it's there, between the three of us. Just what exactly it is the demon inside me is governed by. What Spike doesn't have.

"Oh, I see," Spike drawls, folding his arms over his chest and tilting his head to the side. Cold, glittering eyes fixed on my Watcher. "This is about my absence of soul, is it?"

Of course it is.

It's always about the soul. Who has one. Who doesn't. What it means.

And after everything Spike and I just talked about, our discussion about Angel, it feels like the reference couldn't come at a worse time.

"I'm simply pointing out that this… thing between the two of you is born of something—"

A new rush of anger hits me out of nowhere just as Spike cuts Giles off, stepping forward and jabbing a finger at him.

"The only reason you're takin' whatever bollocks this is seriously is because I'm not all souled-up and repentant."

Giles merely rolls his eyes, looking unfazed and not remotely threatened.

"Spike," he grumbles, placing his glasses back on his face. "Do be quiet."

Another swirl of rage in my stomach, and I'm afraid for a moment I might actually have to reach forward sand restrain my vampire as he moves directly into the Watcher's personal space. Twisting his hand in Giles's shirt and growling low in his throat.

"Would we be havin' this same conversation if Peaches were sittin' here instead of me?" He asks, his voice very low, menacing. I take a step forward on the off chance I have to intervene.

Giles and Spike stare at each other, two pairs of cold, blue eyes riveted to one another. Something, I'm not sure what, passing between them.

After a long, breathless moment, Spike releases the older man with a snarl, but doesn't move out his space.

"If you think for one _fucking_ second that I'd hurt her," he snarls, almost out of the blue, his voice so low I can barely make out the words, "you're off your nut."

Giles keeps his eyes locked on my vampire, simply shaking his head.

"I didn't say that, did I?" He pushes himself back up to his feet, straightening his shirt in the process and stepping further away. "I believe you're capable of many horrific things, Spike…" He trails off and his eyes drift to mine, down to the bite mark on my arm, then up to my eyes. He sighs. "But harming Buffy, on purpose, is not one of them."

I don't know which of us is more surprised, me or the bleached vampire beside me. We both feel it.

So maybe I hadn't been 100% percent in the right when I'd flown off the handle earlier.

"Well that's somethin'," Spike mutters in grudging recognition. I wonder how difficult that had been for Giles to admit.

Especially in the wake of the conversation we've just had.

Which reminds me.

"Giles," I say softly, tentatively, eyeing the journal on the table one more time. "There's nothing in that journal that's going to tell us for sure what the connection is for, or what's supposed to happen next." I shake my head, turning my eyes back to his. "For all we know the Council planted that thing for us to find."

He looks very much like he doesn't believe me.

"And for what purpose would that be?" He asks, eyebrows raised.

And another sharp pang of irritation, purely mine this time, brings the heat rushing back to my cheeks.

"I don't know, Giles," I say petulantly, planting my hands on my hips and rolling my eyes up to the ceiling. "Why don't you call them and ask?"

The room goes quiet.

It's funny. It hadn't felt like a low blow when I'd said it, but now that the words are out, floating in the air between us, I find myself wondering if a knee jerk reaction had been my best move.

But it's how I feel. I am still angry. And we haven't had a chance to really have it out before now.

Though maybe now, right now, isn't the best time. Things seem to be tense enough as it is.

So I sigh, closing my eyes, rolling my neck and my shoulders to rid them of the tension they're still holding and looking back at the man standing across from me.

I don't think my emotions have been quite this volatile, all over the place, since I was sixteen.

"You don't approve," I concede on an exhale. "I get it. But it doesn't _matter_." And why does no one seem to understand that? I shift from foot to foot, feeling both their eyes on me even though I've turned my own to the ground. "And you don't get it. It's really hard for me to believe that something that feels like this…" I trail off, turning my eyes meaningfully up toward Spike. And he's looking at me in that way again. It makes everything in me heat up, the rest of the tension in my shoulders melt away. I smile. "…is something that's supposed to be all with the world endage." I look back to Giles. "Okay? It's just some old guy's whacked out theory."

Giles regards me seriously for a moment before he finally nods. But it isn't in an _I know you're right, I understand_ kind of way. More of a _I see why you think that but you're wrong_ kind of way.

"The connection itself was technically also _only a theory_ , Buffy," he says calmly, watching me, arms folded once more over his chest. He drops his eyes down to the table again. "That one turned out to be quite true."

There's that Watcher logic again.

I wonder if Giles ever gets tired of having to constantly be the practical one.

"Okay, fine," I concede grudgingly, almost unconsciously stepping forward until I'm standing shoulder to shoulder with Spike. "But couldn't it be something else all together?" I think about it for a minute, scanning the various texts scattered around the table. So, yeah, as far as we know the connection is based on a theory. But that's only as far as we know. And in my mind, that still doesn't mean that whatever Giles has read, whatever that other Slayer's Watcher believed, is true. Since when do we ever just take things like this at face value?

Oh, right. Since I got myself mated to an unsoulled Master vampire.

I look up, and I'm surprised to find Giles making tense eye contact with Spike. I clear my throat, drawing both of their attentions back to me.

"Maybe we should try looking for it in that Codex thingy?" I suggest, not really sure if I think we'll find anything about it there or not.

"You're referring to the Pergamum Codex?" I nod, again not sure if that's what I'm referring to or not. Not really caring. Just wanting off this whole "unspeakable evil" theory train for a minute. Giles frowns, brow furrowed. "You think the connection's prophetic?"

The tone of his voice lets me know how silly a suggestion he thinks it is.

"No," I say truthfully, sucking in a deep breath and letting the air out through pursed lips. I look over at Spike. "What I _think_ is that it's already happened." I turn back to Giles. "Okay, it's done. And if there even _is_ an answer to why, or how, or _what_ …" I shift my eyes down to the leather-bound diary. "I don't think you're gonna find it in there."

My voice betrays what I'm thinking, how tired I am of looking for reasons. Of needing to know the answers. The more time I spend thinking about it, staring at the books on the table, thinking about the endless hours of wasted research we've already poured into finding just about _nothing_ about the connection...I just feel like it doesn't matter. All I'd really wanted to know was whether or not the connection could manufacture feelings between Spike and I, and I think we've pretty well established that it couldn't. That it _didn't._ The rest of it...I might not understand it, but I don't need to. I don't care.

Maybe that's this big bad the other Watcher was worried about. Apathy. Apathy can be evil.

Giles must hear it in my voice, too. That I'm not angry or frustrated or even annoyed at this point. Just tired.

Because he nods again, and it looks like he means it this time.

"Fine," he murmurs, shaking his head. "I'll do some more research on it, see if there's anything else I can dig up. Take a look back through the Codex." His eyes snap up to mine, over to Spike's, then back to mine again. "But I _strongly_ suggest the two of you help me get to the bottom of this," he says, voice dropping low, lips set in a hard line, "before something potentially disastrous happens."

I roll my eyes. I can't help it.

"A little much with the doom and gloom there, Giles," I mumble, catching Spike's eye as I do, watching the little twinkle of amusement there. "Everything's fine."

"That remains to be seen," Giles replies, looking about as tired now as I feel. On the same note, Spike and I turn to make our way back to the front door, thinking that tonight's little interruption is over. But Giles calls after us, stopping us both in our tracks before we even reach the steps. "And I don't want you two patrolling together," he adds, like it's an afterthought. Inconsequential. "Not until we've gotten a better handle on the connection."

I whirl around, mouth dropping open. " _What?_ "

Beside me, Spike has the same reaction, a low growl scratching from low in his chest.

"You're out of your sodding mind if you think I'm lettin' her go back out there alone after tonight—"

"Tonight is exactly the issue, Spike," Giles interjects coolly, eyes focused on the vampire beside me. "In case you failed to notice, the cemetery is not a safe place for the two of you to be together." He turns his body to face us, angling his head back. "Or was the little display with Xander not proof enough of that?"

Spike's body language changes instantly, from aggressive to contrite in less than a second. He turns his eyes to me, but I don't look at him. I can already feel what it is he's thinking, anyway.

That Giles has a point.

But I'm still feeling petulant. Still frustrated, both with the conversation we've had tonight and with all the things I'd pushed aside while the Council was in town.

"That was a fluke, Giles," I tell him, highly aware of the way the words sound coming from between my clenched teeth. "We hardly ever face humans while we're—"

Giles interrupts me this time, clearly losing patience himself. He's used to me talking back. Used to me arguing.

What he isn't used to is me being so adamant about it, though.

"It isn't simply what happened with Xander, though that does bring up some...concerns." His eyes flit to Spike, as he says the word, and I have a feeling I know what it is he's thinking about. What had caused our problems tonight.

 _The chip._

He looks back at me, clearing his throat.

"The fact that the two of you can feel each other's pain so strongly is a liability," he explains simply. "If one of you is wounded, or incapacitated, then the other is as well. You won't be able to be effective during your patrols that way, and you certainly won't be able to protect one another."

If there was anything he might have said, anything at all that would get me on his side immediately, this is it. The idea that one of us being hurt would also keep the other from being able to fight, from defending themselves, makes my blood run cold.

I hadn't thought about it tonight. Hadn't really considered anything other than making sure Spike was okay after the chip had fired.

"Specifically," Giles continues, sighing, turning his eyes down to the floor again, "Spike's chip is a liability to you, Buffy."

"Okay," I say immediately, hardly thinking, not a moment's hesitation. "So let's remove it."

Both pairs of blue eyes zero in on me.

I can't ignore the swell of warmth that washes over me, either. I know what I'd see if I looked at Spike now. That soft awe, the stormy swirling blue of his eyes gentle, part hopeful and probably a little confused.

I'm a little confused, myself.

It's funny that the thought of removing Spike's chip hadn't occurred to me before now. Not even when the Council was in town, and I was so worried about his safety. Even after tonight's incident, it hadn't been something on my mind. Not until a moment ago. Maybe I hadn't let myself think about it because it was just one more thing to deal with. One more thing for people to point to and say look at Buffy, she's definitely lost her mind this time.

And I'm the _Slayer_. Turning a very unsoulled vampire loose on Sunnydale's populace isn't exactly in my job description.

But I hadn't hesitated. Hadn't for one second thought about what it might mean to remove Spike's chip once and for all.

People always say you can't have love without trust. And I love Spike. I do.

So is that it? Do I _trust_ Spike? Trust him...not to hurt people? Not to immediately turn around and begin killing again?

He doesn't have a soul, no. But he hadn't needed one to love me. Does he need one to keep from killing? If he loves me, and I just...ask him not to, will that be enough?

I don't know the answer to that. Not for sure.

But it doesn't matter what I think yet, what I'm sure of or not, because Giles is already shaking his head no.

"I'm not prepared to remove it, Buffy. Not until we've done a little more research _here_." He places his free hand on top of the other watcher's diary, referencing the whole "connection is evil" thing. I frown at him, but he keeps talking before I have a chance to say anything. " _And_ it isn't just about the chip, anyway. If you were grievously wounded, it would incapacitate Spike as well."

Again, if he'd been looking for exactly the thing to shut me up, to make me focus, he'd found it. For the second time tonight, the thought of losing Spike, of being the reason he can't protect himself, makes the blood freeze in my veins. My stomach twists.

I can only imagine everything that had gone through his mind tonight.

No wonder he'd blamed himself.

I reach for him, my hand flying out to wrap around his forearm, squeezing gently.

"Okay," I say, my voice low, almost more to myself than anyone else. I turn my eyes to the research table. "Okay. So what, you want to keep him chipped until we find out whether or not this guy's theory is correct?"

Giles sighs, and I can feel his eyes on me.

"I just want to make certain we know what it is we're dealing with. That's all." He looks up at me, and we make eye contact. And I can see it on his face, that he's trying to help. That he wants to help. Or maybe it's that he _wants_ to want to help. I can't quite tell the difference.

But despite everything, I know Giles cares about me. It's why he worries. Why he takes everything so seriously.

Why he does stupid things, like call the Council behind my back, or interrupt patrol to rail at us over something that might prove to be completely meaningless. Because he cares.

And even though I recognize it, I'm still really angry.

"If we can do a little more research," he's saying now, his attention back down on the books across the table. "Maybe we could find a way to... _control_ that side of the connection. Even use it to your advantage."

Suddenly, I find myself interested in the hows and the whys. If it could solve the physical side of the connection, if we could deal with the pain part at least. If I could keep Spike from getting hurt if I do, possibly get that piece of government plastic out of his head…

Yeah. The hows and the whys and the whats seem to matter an awful lot more than they had even a moment ago.

"Fine," I say, letting go of Spike's arm, slipping back down onto the upholstered bench I'd vacated earlier, turning my attention to the stacks of books on the table. "Where do we start?"

I don't know how long we sit there. How long I spend pouring over the books on the table, how much of what I'm reading actually makes sense and how much of it lands on the side of completely irrelevant.

Giles doesn't seem to be having much luck, either. He disappears after a couple hours, and I let my eyes close for a minute or two, leaning my head down onto Spike's shoulder where he's been sitting beside me.

The sun comes up, and with it, a very sleepy looking Willow and Tara. Giles greets them casually, and I figure that must have been where he disappeared to. To call in the reinforcements.

 _Good._

There are way too many books for the two of us to get through on our own, and I'm itching for answers now. For something. Anything that might help me keep Spike safe.

"We come bearing gifts," Willow says, placing a cardboard carrier with four coffee cups down on the center of the table. Tara places a box of donuts down beside it.

I reach for a coffee immediately, letting out a little whimper of gratitude.

"You're a life saver," I say, pulling the cup to me and taking a sip, headless of how hot it might be.

It burns my tongue.

I wince. So does Spike.

"Wanna take it easy with the hot beverages, luv?" He asks me, reaching a hand out, opening the box of donuts with quick flick of his wrist.

"Sorry," I say, pressing the burned tip of my tongue to the roof of my mouth to lessen the stinging.

Tara and Willow move around the table, sinking down side by side on the bench across from us.

"How's your arm, Buffy?" Tara asks gently, drawing my eyes up to hers.

I offer her a weak smile.

"It's okay," I tell her, "could've been worse."

She nods thoughtfully. "That's what Giles told us."

"Which is why us witches are here," Willow adds, lifting the strap of her messenger bag over her head and laying it down on the ground at her feet. "We're trying to find a way to keep…that," she inclines her head toward the wound that's still visible through my shirt, and I get the feeling she's talking more about what caused the wound than the wound itself, "from happening, right?"

I nod. "Right."

Giles clears his throat, placing a small stack of books in front of the pair of witches.

"We haven't been through these yet," he says, pressing his fingers into them before moving back to his own chair.

"So, what are we thinking?" Willow asks Giles, looking at him as she flips open the first book in front of her. "Are we in prophecy land, or what?"

Giles and I exchange a glance. He must've known he'd have to go back through all of this with them again.

"We weren't able to find any references to this in any of the Slayer tomes," he says softly, sounding tired. He shakes his head. "Nothing in the Codex, or anywhere else. Near as I can figure we aren't dealing with anything prophetic in nature."

Spike smirks knowingly at Giles before turning his attention to Willow. "In other words," he says, "we know nothin'."

Giles sends him a scathing look.

Things haven't been nearly as explosive between the two of them since the initial argument a few hours earlier, but they have been tense. Little barbs back and forth, glares, narrowed eyes.

Mostly, they avoid speaking all together. Unless it's to insult each other.

"I don't see you volunteering to do any research," Giles says, eyeing my vampire pointedly as he proceeds to take a large bite out of the jelly donut he'd procured for himself.

I halfway wonder if he can even taste it.

I also kind of wonder if his tongue is still smarting as much as mine is.

He finishes chewing the bite and swallows, offering my Watcher a snide, wolfish grin.

"More of an action man, myself."

"Okay," Willow interrupts before any more barbs can be traded, giving me a wide eyed look, watching as I shake my head as if to say I don't know what to do about it, either. She sighs. "Back to Spike's thing about us knowing nothing." She bites down on her lip. "Do we know nothing?"

"Pretty much," Spike snarks.

Giles ignores him this time, turning cool grey eyes back to the red head across the table.

"We don't know _nothing_ ," he disagrees pointedly, reaching across the table to finger the faded leather journal we'd been debating over just hours ago. He doesn't look at me as he begins to explain. "We have this. The previous Slayer's Watcher kept a separate journal detailing the beginnings of the...connection. Starting with that Slayer's dreams and ending with her…death."

Willow and Tara exchange a look, like maybe they'd discussed a little about our situation before hand. Maybe it's all they've been talking about since they left here earlier last night.

Tara speaks first, focusing on Giles instead of me.

"Is there anything in there about why she chose the vampire she did?"

Giles does look at me then, almost like he's asking my permission to continue on. To tell Willow and Tara about the theory. What he thinks it means.

What I've spent all night looking for a way to disprove.

I just nod. Maybe the two witches can bring some insight to the whole thing. Maybe I'm too close to.

Maybe we all are.

"There's...well, her Watcher had a theory." He stops suddenly, frowning, looking down at the book in his hands. "Perhaps some background information is needed." Giles thinks about it for a moment before looking up again. "The connection between demons is primal. Instinctual. Much like...when animals mate. No real thought or feeling is involved, it's purely instinct. Demons…" he turns his body toward me, directing the next statement to both me and Spike, "the kind of demons that live inside the two of you...are very much like animals in this way. Find the strongest mate and claim them for your own...what?"

I'm making a face. I hadn't even realized it until it had stopped him mid-sentence.

Spike reaches over, running a gentle hand over the crown of my head, down the length of my hair. I lean into his touch instinctually, headless of the eyes that are on us.

"Slayer's not a fan of word mate," he explains, and there's a softness in his voice, the low timbre of affection that comes so naturally I almost don't notice it.

Almost.

"Right," Giles mumbles, sounding uncomfortable. "Well, in any case, what her watcher seemed to believe was the case. That the demon living inside the Slayer gravitated to the strongest answering demon it had experience with." He clears his throat. "The one it felt was the strongest."

It's a slightly different explanation than what he'd given us last night, but I guess I'm thankful that he hasn't gone all fire and brimstone just yet.

Not that it isn't coming.

"Why?" Willow asks, her brow furrowing. She looks at me. "I mean, what purpose would that serve?"

"'S what we don't know," Spike says quickly, cutting Giles off with a hard look before he can say anything else about the doom and gloom theory we'd been wallowing in all night.

Giles mouth clamps shut.

I'm surprised.

Spike, satisfied that Giles got the message loud and clear, turns his eyes back to mine. He reads my confusion, but his only response is to squeeze my knee gently.

"All we're missin' now is the why of things, yeah?" He presses, fixing me with a look that I'm sure I'm supposed to understand but can't seem to quite get there.

I'm helpless, held captive by the swirling azure of his eyes, to do anything but agree.

So I simply say "Yeah."

"Giles?" Tara again, her voice sounding small, tentative. Thoughtful. I turn back to look at her. "Would that…" she trails off, looking around shyly, like what she's about to suggest might be absolutely ridiculous. "I mean, it would have made them really powerful, right? If they'd succeeded in completing the connection."

"Yeah," Willow murmurs in agreement, and I watch the different emotions flicker over her face. Like maybe she knows the three of us haven't told them everything. "I don't know a lot about...whatever it is inside you, Buff, but it has to be pretty strong, right?"

It's funny that hearing them say it, my friends, has more of an impact on me than anything Giles had tried to tell me before. And I start to see it. Start to understand why he'd taken what it is he'd read so seriously.

"And old," Tara concludes. "If that's what was seeking the strongest...mate." Her eyes flick to Spike.

The vampire sighs, possibly thinking the same thing I am.

"You're thinkin'—"

"That two already powerful halves would probably make for a pretty unstoppable whole?" I finish, filing in the rest of the sentence for him.

He and I exchange a poignant look before turning back toward the two witches. I feel his hand tighten on my knee.

"Yeah," I sigh, conceding to the possibility. "That's…pretty much what he thought, too."

Giles clears his throat, raising an eyebrow when I turn to look back at him.

"Are you admitting that could be the why of the equation?"

"What, that we're supposed to be some…massively powerful source for evil?" I ask, my voice harder than I mean it to be. There's a soft gasp from Willow and I realize a little too late that no body had quite gotten around to mentioning that specific part yet.

Oh well.

"No, Giles," I continue, still looking at him, noting how the angrier my voice gets, the firmer Spike's grip on my leg becomes. "I'm _not_ admitting that."

I don't know why I'm having such a hard time getting a handle on my temper. It's never been like this before.

"Relax, luv," the vampire murmurs in my ear, as though he's read my mind. At his gentle urging, I do relax, leaning slightly into his shoulder.

"What I'm saying," I begin, preparing to clarify, feeling a little calmer now. "Is that there's probably something to it, what this guy thought. The powerful part at least." I look at Giles, referencing the diary in his hand. "But I'm not willing to just take some long dead Watcher's word for it."

The room falls silent. I hadn't intended for my outburst to bring such an abrupt end to the conversation, but it doesn't seem like anyone else is willing to say anything yet.

And the silence is good, anyway. It gives me second to think. Catch my breath. Sift through everything we've read, everything we haven't found. What it all might mean.

Whether or not it matters.

My number one concern at this point isn't why what's happening is happening, or what purpose some Watcher from the 1700s thought the connecting might serve.

I just want to understand how to _control_ it.

And even if his theory had been right…who's to say we're going to automatically fall into whatever trap he'd believed the connection to be? If it isn't a prophecy, which we're pretty sure it isn't, it means there's no outcome here that's unavoidable.

The purpose of it, at least, isn't inevitable.

We get to choose this part.

"It should be up to us," I softly, finally breaking the silence that's wrapped itself around the table. I have my eyes down, focused on the open book in front of me, not really seeing the words. "It should be up to us to decide what it means."

"Buffy?" Giles says my name like a question.

I look up and meet his eyes. His brow is furrowed, glasses off his face and in his hand now.

"We're the first pair to ever successfully complete the connection," I explain, voice still soft but gaining urgency the more I think about it. Wanting to put this part behind us, move on to more important things. "So we should be the ones that get to decide the connection's purpose."

It seems so obvious now that I've said it. Why the thought hadn't occurred to me before, I don't know.

Or maybe it had and I just hadn't been aware enough to realize it. Maybe that's really the thought I'd been having yesterday, last night. It isn't apathy. It isn't that I don't care what the purpose of our connection is.

It's just that I've realized no one else can decide that for us.

 _Because no one else knows_.

"Alright," Giles murmurs, laying his glasses down on the table. "And what do you think the purpose is?"

I shake my head. Not angry, but feeling the need to clarify what I'd meant.

"I'm not saying I _know_. I'm just…there's obviously a reason." I turn my body, angling it to face Spike, looking up at him with a thoughtful expression. "A reason that it worked out for us when it hasn't before, and more than just the feelings factor."

Spike offers me a tight smile, and I search his eyes with mine, biting down on my lip.

"Partners, right?" He murmurs quietly, reaching up to brush the pad of his thumb over my jaw.

I smile back.

"Yeah," I agree, my voice just as quiet, and nod. "A team."

It makes just as much sense as anything else to me. That we're supposed to be one whole in this way. A powerful force for good, not evil.

 _Demon essences be damned_.

"And you think that's inherently a good thing?" Giles asks, cutting through the moment like a knife.

I tear my gaze from Spike's to look at him, frowning.

"Why is that so hard to believe?" I ask him, ire rising again.

 _Because he doesn't understand_ , the little voice in the back of my head whispers. _Because he can't_.

"One of you was created to defend the world and the other is what you were created to defend it from," Giles says, sounding mildly annoyed, like I should know this by now. But his voice is softer now than it was a moment ago.

I frown. "I know that—"

He sighs, cutting me off.

"You say that, Buffy, but it seems like you've forgotten." His eyes are gentler now, too. "As inherently good as the Slayer is supposed to be, I'm afraid vampires are just as inherently evil."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut, a hot flash of irritation rising to color my cheeks again.

And Spike's words, immediately after, soft and low, soothing in my ear.

"He's not wrong, luv."

But he is.

And I know he is.

The second the words leave his lips, touch the air, every instinct I have tells me he's wrong.

It isn't the absence of a soul that makes someone evil. It might make them…indifferent. Morally neutral. Not incapable of remorse, not _incapable_ of doing good, just less inclined to it. More apt to act on impulse. Ask forgiveness, not permission.

But I don't say any of this out loud. Not yet. Not until I've had a chance to get Spike alone and talk to him about it.

Find out just how "inherently evil" William had been when he was first turned.

"So, what?" I ask instead, still focused on Giles. Cheeks still on fire. "That automatically means we're cosmically destined to do bad things?" I shove myself to my feet, the bench sliding out, grating hard on the wooden floor as I do. "I hate to break it to you, Giles, but I don't feel particularly evil-doing inclined."

Giles stands up, too, pushing his chair out and leaning his knuckles onto the table as he does.

He uses one hand to point toward me.

"When you completed that connection, you fused yourselves together. Became part of one another." He drops his hand down to the table, so both knuckles are braced against the wood grain. "Can you look me in the eye and tell me honestly you haven't experienced any new… _compulsions_ since the claim took effect?"

No.

I can't.

Immediately, I'm hit with a flash of understanding. My temper. My out of control emotions. The sudden and overwhelming need for the hunt, to toy with that vamp last night. The virile rage that seems to come and go at a moment's notice.

The physical pull toward violence in the midst of intimacy.

I swallow hard, remembering the moment last night in my bedroom. Gasping, clawing at his back with my nails. Begging him to push me to my limits. Love me harder. Deeper. Push me to the point of pain and send me over the edge with the peircing sting of his fangs.

Needing the pain as much as the pleasure.

I shake my head to clear it, pushing those thoughts, those images away in favor of the argument we're having now.

"You were the one who told Spike that the chip was an opportunity to do something bigger," I remind Giles hotly. "Something _good_."

My Watcher's eyes flash.

"Yes," he agrees, turning his eyes on Spike. "And if I remember correctly, that notion was met with a very firm dismissal."

I feel my vampire's muscles tense in response to the reminder from a year ago.

"'S different now," Spike growls in response, standing up now, too. His eyes are cold. "And you know it."

Giles narrows his eyes, dropping his voice down low. Menacing.

"You'll understand why I'm hesitant to believe that a connection between demon essences can be something intended for good."

I stare at him, shifting back on my heels and folding my arms over my chest.

I can feel Tara and Willow's eyes on me, too.

"Well, _somebody_ obviously thought a demon essence could be used for good," I say snidely, using my pointer finger to reference myself as the very prime example of that.

The ultimate warrior for good, here. Powers brought to you be demon dust, incorporated.

Apparently, my Watcher hadn't considered this.

"Yes, well," Giles stammers, stumbling in his argument, apparently caught off guard. So I guess he isn't the only one that gets to be on the side with the logic. He frowns, thinking it over before she shakes his head. "That's…different."

But it's not.

 _To the same_.

"No it isn't," I counter immediately, gaining traction. My argument firming up in my mind as I look at him.

Beside me, Spike chuckles.

"According to those dusty books of yours, Rupert," he drawls, cocking his head to the side. "'s exactly the same."

And he can't deny it. It's exactly what the books have told us. That what live sin side me and what lives inside Spike is the same.

Exactly the same.

Giles frowns, his lips forming a thin line.

"The demon, perhaps," he agrees slowly, but I can hear the "but" coming a mile away, even before he hurries to continue speaking. "But Slayer's have souls. They're still human."

And there it is.

We're back to this, just like I knew we would be eventually.

I turn my eyes up to the ceiling, shaking my head. I can feel Spike having a similar reaction beside me.

"Okay, yeah. Fine," I agree, throwing my arms up in the air, exasperated. I plant my hands on my hips, digging my nails into the denim of my jeans. "Let's play the who has a soul game." I gesture to my vampire. Spike doesn't." Then back to me. "I do. We get it. Even _if_ that mattered as much as you still seem to think it does—"

"Umm, guys?" Willow asks, her voice cutting me off, managing to cut through the haze of frustration that's blurring my vision now.

All three of us, me, Giles and Spike, snap our eyes back to where the witches are seated, where they've been sitting this entire time watching the exchange going on in front of them.

"What?" Giles and I half shout at the same time.

A soft rumble of amusement passes over me, and I know it has to be Spike's.

I don't find any of this particularly funny.

Willow and Tara exchange a look, and I see Tara nod almost imperceptibly, as if encouraging her to continue on.

She swallows, turning back to look at me.

"Well, we were just thinking…wouldn't the 'two halves, one whole' thing sort of solve the non-soul having issue?"

I feel my eyes go impossibly wide.

No one moves. No one says anything. We all just stare at the red head, at the puzzled look on her face. Her eyes are very wide, too, as she seems to realize that what she's just said is news to all of us.

"Well, I just…" she trails off, looking between the three of us who are standing up. "I mean…" and again, glancing one more time at her girlfriend before turning forward once more. "Are we the only ones who've thought about this?"

I gape at her, trying at first and failing to find my voice. Settling for simply nodding until I can manage a sputtering "Survey says—"

"Yeah," Spike finishes the thought for me.

We seem to be doing that a lot lately, too.

Willow nibbles on her lip, looking back and forth between Spike and I as we stare at her, equal parts confused and completely at a loss. That the connection could be more than what we've already felt. That it might include sharing things besides emotions, physical experiences.

No. It's never occurred to me. Not _once_.

When it becomes clear that no one else is going to say anything until she explains further, my friend clears her throat before she starts to speak again.

"I guess we just figured if you guys are...fundamentally connected. A part of each other. One whole…" I nod to show we're hearing her, and she nods back. "That that would include things that one of you has and the other _doesn't_." Her voice rises slightly in pitch, going a little squeaky as she continues. "Part of the...being one with each other package?"

Giles turns fully toward Willow, picking up his glasses fem where he'd left them on the table and beginning to polish them as he eyes her.

"You're suggesting that part of the connection would manifest itself as Buffy and Spike sharing a soul?"

Willow nods, her cheeks reddening slightly under his scrutiny.

"But it's just a theory," she mumbles, glancing sideways at Tara.

Beside me, Spike growls. "Gettin' real bloody tired of that word."

I glance at him appreciatively, letting him know he isn't the only one.

And I'm half expecting Giles to dismiss it out right, this new theory of theirs. To scoff at it, deny it the same way he's been so quick to dismiss everything I've been arguing for over the past several hours.

He doesn't.

Instead, he stops polishing his glasses and places them delicately back on his face, turning to me and Spike as he does.

"It would make sense," he says, almost to himself. He focuses in on the bleached blonde beside me. "Have _you_ noticed any changes, Spike, since the claim took effect?"

Everything about my Watcher's body language is different now. Lighter, more curious, less condemning. And I realize that this makes all the difference to him.

This makes him see everything differently.

And even though I don't agree with him, am more and more finding myself on the side of not thinking having a soul is the end all be all of what makes someone _good,_ something leaps in my chest.

Something that feels an awful lot like hope.

Because even if Giles just thinks Spike and I are sharing a soul, his attitude toward him will change. He might even start to grudgingly trust him. It would make everything so much simpler for us. And it would make getting that chip removed so much simpler, too.

I turn toward Spike, a small smile on my face, but he isn't looking at me.

He's glaring at my Watcher.

"You mean am I feelin' all cuddly and de-fanged like the Great Poof?" he asks, his voice hard, venomous. "All souled up and remorseful? No." And his voice drops lower, as though speaking more to himself than us, shaking his head emphatically. "Bloody hell, _no_."

I frown, stepping closer to him and reaching out for his hand. I drop my voice down low, speaking just for him.

"Spike—"

He rips his hand out of my grip with more force than I've felt from him in ages, turning those flashing, narrowed eyes on me as he snarls another low " _No_."

The hope in my chest is smothered completely by the rage coming from him. Hot and strong, further evidenced by the blazing yellow where there should have been blue. There's confusion there too, but I don't know if it's his or mine.

And then he growls, shoving passed me and storming toward the training room's closed door. I cast a confused glance to the three people who are now staring at me and turn on my heel, following the path my vampire had just taken into the other room.

"Spike," I say, catching up with him on the far end of the training room and grabbing his arm, "stop."

He snarls at me when I pull him around to face me, his eyes flashing, voice menacing.

"Go back in the other room, Buffy."

And he whirls away from me again, moving as far as he can into the corner of the room.

"No," I say heatedly, following him. "Will you just…" I catch him again, gripping his bicep as hard as I can and spinning him back around to face me. "Spike. What the _hell_ is going on with you?" I search his angry eyes with mine, still feeling that overwhelming rage, the shooting vibrations of anger tumbling down my spine as I look at him. "This is a good thing."

Another surge of anger, this time coupled with indignation. So strong it makes me physically let go of his arm and take a step backwards.

I blink at him, a little stunned.

He barks a short, harsh laugh, pinning me with stormy eyes.

"You _would_ think that," he growls, "wouldn't you?"

" _Yes_ ," I agree quickly, emphatically, my voice rising in pitch and my own chest growing tight with frustration as I look at him.

This is the first time we've actually argued since completing the claim, and I don't like it. Don't like how out of control it makes me to feel both his anger and mine so strongly. At the same time. It's heady, and powerful, and completely overwhelming.

My hands start to shake.

It just reminds me that there are still some things we don't know about it. That Giles was right in suggesting we try and find a way to control it.

I take another step away from, needing the distance. Hoping it might help. Trying hard to reign in my own anger, to battle against the hold his seems to have on me.

"I would think that," I continue, lowering my voice. "It means—"

"That I'm one step closer to being your _precious_ Angel, yeah?" He spits the name out with more malice than I've seen from him in weeks, eyes flashing, blazing yellow again. "That you can prance me around like your sodding holier than thou ex. That I'll suddenly want to rescue puppies, and save the world?"

His words strike a chord in me, bring with them a memory of this same vampire telling me that that's exactly what he wanted to do.

" _I want to save the world."_

God, that seems so long ago. Forever ago. Granted, yes, it had been to save Drusilla more than it had been about actual world saveage…but it had been there. A sincere desire to see Angelus fail. A desire to work with me.

He'd come to me. He'd _helped_ me.

I feel my own ire flicker and fade as I look up at him, remembering that moment, seeing it now with fresh eyes.

But Spike's anger is still flaring wildly, untamed.

"This what you wanted, pet?" He asks me harshly, apparently not having noticed that the anger has petered out for me. He leans into my personal space and lowers his voice. "For me to be like _him_?"

Normally, I think I'd step away from him. Now, though, I do the opposite. Moving forward into his advance until my nose is almost touching his, making sure he sees what it is I'm thinking in my eyes.

"I never said that," I tell him honestly, gently, reaching my hands out toward his.

I can tell immediately he wants to pull away from me again, but I dig the palms of my hands into his, rubbing soothing circles with my thumbs over the backs of his hands.

And I watch it happen. Watch him visibly relax under my touch, muscle in his jaw unclenching, hands softening. I see the rage that had been so powerful just seconds ago melt out of his gaze.

The yellow is gone, replaced by a haze of ocean colored blue.

And I wonder absently if maybe I've just done it. Managed to control the connection. Use it, work it to our advantage, just like Giles had said.

But I think that's a question for another moment. Not this one.

Spike exhales, shaking his head, but not moving away from me. "Didn't have to," he tells me, voice quiet.

"How can you say that to me?" I ask him, my voice still soft, not accusing, or angry. But curious. Like I really want to know. "After everything last night, Spike." I shake my own head, moving closer to him so the tip of my nose grazes his in an almost Eskimo kiss. I inhale deeply, letting that perfect, smoky leather scent wash over me. "How can you still think this is about him?"

We're still arguing. I know we are.

But it isn't explosive anymore.

And there's something else happening, too.

"Because I _felt_ it, pet," Spike tells me, a very quiet surge of irritation in his eyes even as his hands close around mine and he leans into me. He tilts his head to the side. "Watched the way your eyes lit up when the little witch brought up the soul." He sighs, exhaling through his nose. "It made you _happy_. The only reason that would make you happy—"

"The only reason it made me happy, the only reason it matters to me at _all_ , is because it means it'll make the chip removal a nonissue," I tell him honestly, watching a sort of wondrous confusion warring with aggravation on his face. His dark brows draw together as he searches my eyes. "Nobody can say you still need that thing if you have a soul," I explain to him, tightening my hold on his hands for emphasis, "or you're sharing mine, or...whatever."

Because it's the truth. That's the first thing I'd thought of. The _only_ thing I'd thought of in that immediate moment.

That's where the happy had come from.

"That's the reason?" Spike asks me, his voice colored in shades of astonishment, still low, gravelly, but sweet. "That's why you got all starry eyed in there?"

I roll my eyes.

"I don't think I got _starry eyed_ over anything," I tell him meaningfully, watching, _enjoying_ as that infamous smirk ghosts the corner of his mouth, drawing my eyes down to his lips before I look back up to his eyes and nod. "But...sure. Yeah. Even if it's not true, which hey," I unclasp one of my hands from his, reaching up to poke him hard in the sternum, narrowing my eyes, "jury's still _majorly_ out on that one."

He smiles at me again and I find myself smiling back. I begin to pull my hand away but Spike is quicker than me, reaching his freed hand up to grab mine. He clasps it firmly, holding it tightly to his chest.

The same way he had last night after I'd told him. Told him that I love him.

His eyes don't leave mine for a long moment, watching me carefully through his lashes, like he's wondering what to say next. Where to go from here.

Finally, he sighs, exhaling through his nose and pressing my hand a little tighter to his chest as he asks, "Do you really want the chip out?"

The question is a loaded one. And it's also one I don't know the answer to. Or I do, but the answer to the question he's asked out loud might not be the same as the answer to the question he _really_ wants to ask me.

Do you really want the chip out? It's what he'd asked.

 _Do you trust me enough to want the chip out_? It's what he'd meant.

He's asked it in a very specific way, too, leaving me very little room to misunderstand him. But also in a way that lets me know he isn't expecting one answer over another.

"I...I mean I haven't thought all the way through it yet," I tell him honestly, looking away from him. I stare at my pale pink painted fingernails, so light beside the dark of his shirt where my hand is balled against him. "But...yeah. After what happened last night…it reminded me of when the Council showed up. I was worried because I knew you wouldn't have been able to defend yourself if…" I close my eyes, inhaling deeply, pushing those thoughts aside. "And there's the whole I get those splitting migraines, too, now." I open them again, turning my gaze back up to his. "And it's not…"

"Right?" Spike supplies for me cheekily, a wry smirk completely curving his mouth, the azure of his irises eyes suddenly twinkling.

It's funny.

If you'd asked me a year ago if I thought chipping vampires was morally _right,_ I don't know what I would have said. Sure, I never really understood it. Why the Initiative wanted to control the demons, study them, instead of just dusting them or decapitating them or whatever was needed to keep the towns folk safe.

But it hadn't exactly bothered me, the idea of the behavior modification software. The obvious pain Spike had been in when he'd tried to hurt one of us.

Of course, that was before. Before the connection. Before I'd felt the pain first hand.

Before I'd fallen in love with him.

So, yeah, I can admit it…that the Initiative's tactics hadn't been entirely on the up and up.

Still…

"I don't regret the chip, Spike." And I don't. "It kept me from dusting you. But I want it out now." I open my hand up beneath his, splaying my fingers wide over the spot on his chest that I'd touched once before. The last time I'd asked him about his soul. "And this is as good an excuse as any."

"Even if it's not true?" He counters softly, gently, again like he isn't expecting one answer over another.

Just asking to ask. Because he needs to know.

"Because I gotta tell you, pet," he continues, hand tightening over mine. "I don't feel very different." His eyes twinkle again now as he gazes down at me, cocking his head to the side in just _that_ way. "Not all soul-having and redemption bound."

My response is instant, a quick nod as I chew down on my bottom lip and say, "I trust you."

I'm expecting the flood of warmth that accompanies this statement. Can feel the awe coming from him all the way down to my toes, even though I'm not looking at him.

When I meet his eyes again, they aren't twinkling. They're serious. Thoughtful.

And his voice is low when he leans a little closer to me, his lips almost touching mine, cool breath fanning across my skin.

My lashes flutter closed in anticipation as he whispers, "Maybe you shouldn't."

But he doesn't mean it. Doesn't say it because it's true, but out of some kind of misplaced _need_ to say it.

And it's not true.

It's not true, and in the next moment as he captures my lips with his, we both know it.


	35. Chapter 34

Three weeks pass.

Three weeks that might as well be years for the amount of nothing we're able to find research wise. Apart from the doom and gloom from the Slayer-before-me's Watcher (I've since found out that her name was Henrietta, and if the drawings in the journal are sketches of her, she was quite the looker), we draw a big, flashing neon sign of blank. Three weeks worth of tireless evenings spent in all out research mode, and even with all five of us digging, nada. Zip.

We find out nothing else about the connection from the sources the Council left behind.

And the less we find, the more bent out of shape Giles becomes. Go figure.

Two weeks of Spike and I avoiding patrols together. We work out a system, switching off every other night so one of us can join the research party while the other sweeps the cemeteries.

Despite Giles thinking it the safest option for both of us for the time being, it hasn't always worked out. There was one night the second week when Spike had taken patrol while I'd been researching, and he'd gotten into a tight spot with a gang of demons cutting through the graveyard on their way over to Willy's. And Spike, while definitely more than capable of holding his own in a fight, just isn't the most popular of demons lately. But he hadn't exactly been popular even before all the stuff with me had happened, as he'd explained to me countless times, trying to assure me that what had happened this particular night hadn't been all my fault.

He'd never come out and told me exactly how many of them there had been, but judging from the amount of pain my own arm had been in, I'd guessed he'd had his shoulder dislocated.

I'd felt it when he'd popped it back in place, too.

There hadn't been any further complications from the chip, though, and that had been good. Well, good and bad. Mostly bad because I'd made it my own personal mission to get Giles to cave on removing it and had hoped that another close call might be all we needed to finish convincing him.

Granted, I hadn't gotten as far as to consider what would happen when Giles did finally cave to my shameless pleading…but I figured I'd cross that most likely Initiative shaped bridge when I came to it.

But good, ya know, in terms of the no splitting headaches for either of us thing.

Which was good, since I'd been using all my left over mental capacity to try and salvage my classes for the semester. English had been manageable, and so had intro to economics and the art course I'd opted for initially because I'd figured it would be an easy A. History, though, was a nasty of a different color. I'd argued pretty emphatically that it was too far gone, that I should just take the incomplete and call it a day, considering the professor sort of already hated me. And yeah, giving up, not exactly Slayer style. So when I'd explained to my family which classes I'd been planning to make work and which ones I'd planned to get with the forgoing, I'll admit I had expected somewhat of a fight.

I just hadn't expected it to come from Spike.

" _Why do you even care?" I ask, dropping down onto my mattress, looking up at him with narrowed eyes._

 _Spike smirks at me from the doorway. Leans against the wood, propping one booted foot in front of the other and folding his arms over his chest. His eyes are warm, the little lines around them crinkling with barely disguised mirth._

 _He thinks I'm being childish. I know he does._

" _Because," he drawls, " I care about you." I watch as unhooks one ankle from the other, stepping into my bedroom and approaching me purposefully. "And you're not a bloody quitter."_

 _I make a face at him, folding my arms over my own chest, trying to disguise the flood of warmth his words have sent rocketing down my spine._

 _It's something we've been practicing. How to control the emotions, the feelings, the pain. Keep them all from overwhelming each other when they happen. It's an exercise Giles has been having us work on, and so far, I've been just this end of unsuccessful._

" _Yeah, well," I grumble, watching him as he comes to stand right in front of me. I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "There's a first time for everything."_

 _Spike's lips curve in a wan smile, eyes going to the ceiling and shaking his head. "Suit yourself," he murmurs, turning his gaze back down to mine._

 _And I see it happen. See the dark of his irises swallow the azure, flashing hungrily as the idea strikes him. The heat flooding my veins unmistakeable now._

 _He moves closer to me, stepping into my space until his thighs gently graze my knees. "But I woulda been happy to help you…" His gaze rakes down from my face, over my chest, slowly down my torso where it lingers just long enough to make my cheeks flush before snapping back to my eyes. "…study."_

I'd ended up passing my history final. A D+, but still passing, and in my mind with colors that could be considered flying. Especially with what Spike had considered to be helpful studying…which had included what my vampire had sensuously referred to as positive conditioning.

I'd accused him openly at one point of only convincing me to finish out the course for that very reason. Spike hadn't even bothered to deny it.

It had amazed me, how easy a rhythm we'd managed to fall into over the last three weeks. Spike had spent an astounding amount of time over at my house, often times remaining there throughout the day. I'd never been 100% clear on what it was he'd been doing while all three of the Summers women were gone…Mom had finally felt well enough to go back to work, and Dawn and I had still had class until about a week ago. He'd never told me, either.

But when Mom began noticing the books on the shelf in the living room had been moved around, I figured it out on my own. Jane Austen, she'd told me one night. Those were the books he'd pulled off the shelves. That, and somebody with a Spanish sounding name. Pablo...something. Mom had told me it was poetry.

That, at least, had made sense.

And we weren't the only ones who'd noticed, and wondered, at exactly how much time Spike had been spending at the house. Granted, yes, he still had his crypt. And granted, yes, he was still staying there most of the time. Most of the time being three, sometimes four, nights out of the week…it had grown into a source of some contention between Giles and I, and also, but to a much lesser extent, between Xander and I.

Once he'd started coming back around again, that is.

I for one, had wondered but had made no move to question it. The last thing I'd wanted was for Spike to think we were wigged by him spending so much time with us, especially when I personally found it insanely comforting. Which, stop and think about _that_ for a second. That not only had I grown used to having the vampire around, but I'd come to expect it, and even rely on it. On his presence. And for more than just the normal reasons. It had been easier, being together, on the connection. It's another thing we'd found out in the course of our...experiments. That the anxiety factors sky rockets for me when I'm not with him. My skin tingles, the knots in my stomach harden and it's difficult for me to focus on much of anything because all I can think about, the only thing I can focus on, is waiting for the sting of pain. Waiting for something to let me know that he's been wounded.

And my anxiety gives _him_ anxiety, which does nothing to help him when he is out, say, patrolling.

So, yeah, Spike and I have been largely of the inseparable for the better part of the last three weeks. Not including patrols, not including the times I'd had to force myself to go to class, we've been together.

So it had been an easy decision, in the end, to invite Spike over for Christmas. There'd been some initial resistance but he'd caved after much prodding and poking from Dawn, specifically. And her poking and prodding had been at my request.

I'd understood his hesitance. I just hadn't cared.

"What's this then?" Spike asks now, sitting beside Dawn on the sofa as Mom places a medium sized, artfully wrapped box on his lap. "Thought I said no gifts, Joyce."

He had, of course. Multiple times. Any time any of us had tried to sneakily ask him what it was he'd wanted for Christmas, he'd been very adamant. Nothing. No gifts.

"Demons don't exactly get in the Christmas spirit, yeah?" He'd said, making things increasingly difficult.

Not that it had stopped us.

"You did," Dawn agrees cheerfully, offering him a bright smile as she hops up off the sofa and dives beneath the tree, grabbing her own much less neatly wrapped parcel and tossing it toward him.

Spike catches it with one hand, never taking his eyes off my little sister, scarred eyebrow raised high. For being so loud and proud about hating all thing's Christmas, he's certainly presenting a different image now. Granted, no, he hadn't caved to the majorly festive sweater that Dawn had initially requested that he wear, opting instead for that silky red button down shirt over one of his more faded t-shirts. And he'd studiously avoided the house the night we'd decided to decorate the tree.

But he's still here. Still celebrating with us, for all intents and purposes, even though he'd initially balked at the idea.

He hadn't been exactly happy when I'd told him we'd gone ahead and invited Xander and Anya, as well.

But he's here. Sitting in front of the tree, chatting with Dawn, breaking off every once and a while to watch the flickering black and white images of Miracle on 35th Street dancing on the TV screen. He'd claimed to never have seen it, but I don't think he'd counted on me watching him as closely as I have been tonight. Wandering in and out of the living room and back into the kitchen, helping Mom with dinner, setting the table in the dining room. And watching Spike. Always watching Spike.

My eyes can't help but be drawn to him. It's something else I've spent the last three weeks noticing. No matter where we are, no matter who we're with, no matter how much distance I manage to put between our bodies…my eyes find him instantly.

So I notice it tonight when I catch him quoting certain lines under his breath. I can hear him, even in the other room. I don't know if it's just because I'm so highly attuned to him now, or if it's the connection, or what.

I'm watching him carefully, now. Leaning against the door frame leading into the living room, seeing him interacting with my sister and my mom. Sure, he'd put up a fight about being here, but he looks awfully comfortable. The picture of domesticity. Or, as much as he can be, what with the mug of blood in his hand.

Sometimes it surprises me how effortlessly Spike seems to have fit himself into my life. Other times, it doesn't surprise me at all.

"Go ahead and open them, Spike," Mom admonishes, resting her hip on the edge of the sofa's arm rest nearest me.

My vampire turns his eyes to her, and his expression melts into one of gentlemanly kindness. It's an expression exclusively reserved for my mother, and it never fails to bring a rush of heat my own cheeks. It's like getting a little glimpse into who he'd been, what he'd been like, before.

"Honestly," he says, his voice softer, too, "you didn't need to do this."

Mom smiles at him and nods her head. "Just open it."

"Open mine first," Dawn pipes up, tapping the wrapped gift that he's still clutching in his right hand.

Spike sighs, trying his best to look put out, giving a grandiose eye roll and everything. But I can feel it, how much he's enjoying the attention. The affection. Something that, the more I get to know him…really know him, I've come to believe might be the one thing the bleached vampire craves more than blood.

"Right then," he grouses, reaching his left hand, the mug of blood, out to Dawn. "Do us a favor and hold this?"

She takes it from him, but not before making a face and muttering a customary "ew" under her breath. Spike chuckles. I feel the corner of my lips quirk up into a smile.

It's a mug. Dawn had gone to great lengths, or so she'd claimed to me, to pick out just the perfect one. A particularly tall one, with a masculine looking black and red pattern criss crossing on it.

"It's a mug for blood," Dawn explains, as though it hadn't been fairly obvious to everyone in the room. "A blood mug."

I find myself giggling softly at the look passing over his face now. Mom glances at me, smiling when she catches my eye. She winks.

"Hmm," Spike murmurs, turning the porcelain mug over and over again in his hands, examining the pattern. "Why do I get the feelin' this is a present for you birds as much as it is for me?"

Dawn makes a face at him, a little like she's thinking the word duh, tucking her legs up underneath her in a criss cross position. "You try being on dish washing duty with a sink full of blood stained mugs."

I step forward then, moving into the room and dropping down onto my knees beside the base of the Christmas tree.

"Here," I say, reaching down and pulling out the package I'd wrapped earlier that afternoon and holding it out to Spike. "Do mine."

He turns swirling indigo eyes toward me, reaching forward to gently set Dawn's mug down on the coffee table, shifting Mom's unwrapped present slightly so it's resting on the cushion to his right. His eyes search my face and I can feel the curiosity coming from him as he leans forward and takes the package from me, his hand gently brushing against mine as he does.

It sends sparks shooting up my arm.

I don't think I'll ever get used to that, either.

"Now I know I told you no gifts," he chides me, his voice drawling, sarcastic, but his gaze is impossibly warm.

I shrug. "This ones more for me, too," I say simply, our gazes locked even as he begins to tear into the wrapping paper. I watch him, biting down into my lip as he removes the last of the paper and pops the box open, finally turning his eyes from mine.

And I'm nervous. More nervous than I'd thought I'd be that he won't like it. Or he'll think it's dumb. Or offensive. I find myself half way holding my breath as he pushes aside the tissue paper and stares down into the contents of the box.

And then he laughs. Not a long, loud laugh, but a soft one. Appreciative. Like he's on the the inner circle of an inside joke and is enjoying being in the know.

He looks back up at me, eyes bright, twinkling, and tilts his head to the side.

"This the color, then?" He asks, reaching into the box and pulling out the soft, cotton v-neck t-shirt on the top. The one that's a lighter, not quite Robin's egg blue.

I offer him a small smile and shake my head. Something a little like confusion flickers over his face, hits me softly in the middle of my chest. I move toward him, a little awkwardly on my knees, until I'm propped up directly below where he's seated on the sofa and reach for the box.

There are four different t-shirts inside, each a different shade of blue. Pulling the box into my lap, I dig through the shirts until I reach the bottom one. A deeper, darker shade of blue than the shirt on top, but not quite as deep as the navy and not as hazy as the grey blue of the other two. The girl that had helped me at the store had described it as "cerulean".

I pull the cerulean colored shirt out and hand it up to him, watching as his eyes flit from mine to the fabric in my hands and back to my face as he takes it from me.

"That's the color," I tell him softly, remembering the conversation we'd had in his crypt all those weeks ago. "That's the color right now."

Spike searches my face for a moment before looking back down, passing one black nailed hand over the fabric, twisting it gently in his fingers. He stares at it for a a few endless seconds.

And then he looks up, reaches out, cupping my chin in his hand and drawing me closer to him to plant a firm, lingering kiss to my lips. It isn't a deep kiss. Isn't even open mouthed. But we stay like that for a long moment, only breaking away once we hear Dawn's semi-stifled giggle.

Spike grins at me, enjoying how easy it is for him to bring color to my cheeks most likely, and whispers a meaningful "thank you".

"You have to wear them," I tell him, clearing my throat a little awkwardly and pulling my chin out of his hand, settling down onto my ankles. "I know they aren't black, but—"

"I'll go put one on right now," he says silkily, cutting me off, moving as though to stand up.

Mom stops him with a gentle clearing of her own throat. He turns to look at her, and she raises both her eyebrows. "You have one more present to open, Spike."

I'm actually just as curious as he is about what it is Mom's gotten for him. She hadn't told me, and as far as I know hadn't told Dawn, either. She hadn't really even asked Spike what he'd wanted. But the package with her wrapping, with his name on it, had turned up beneath the tree the night before just the same.

"Of course," Spike says instantly, a little sheepish, his voice contrite as he places the t-shirt back in it's box and sets it down on the sofa beside him, picking up the other package and setting it in his lap. He stares at it for a second before beginning to open it.

He's nervous. I can feel that he is, but I'm not sure why.

It's a book. Well, no, it's three books. Reddish brown covers, with gold trim, and some sort of intricate design all along the spine baring a title I can't make out in the dim light. Spike can. His eyes light up, turning from the cerulean blue that matches the t-shirt resting on top of my box to something a little lighter. He turns to look at Mom, a soft smile, genuine smile, playing on his lips.

"Pride and Prejudice," He says softly, lips curving in a small, knowing smile.

Mom smiles back, nodding her head. "You said you lost your copy?"

"I…" Spike trails off, turning his eyes down to the books again, trailing a hand over the front cover. "I mean, yeah, I did…ages ago. Before…"

Before.

Mom's still smiling warmly, watching my vampire stare at the books, watching as he flips open the front cover and moves to the copyright page. He shakes his head, eyes widening slightly. "1903."

"I tried to find one from your…era, but I—"

"No," Spike says quickly, and even though he's cut her off his voice is gentle. He turns his eyes back to look at my mom, that same expression on his face, accent softening, his mannerisms suddenly every inch a man born and bred over one hundred years ago. "This is magnificent, Joyce. Truly. I…" He looks down at it again, shaking his head as though he can't believe what he's seeing. "Thank you."

Pride and Prejudice. I've heard of it, obviously. I'm fairly sure I was supposed to read it for a class in high school.

I can't seem to remember if I actually read it or not, though. I don't think I even really know what it's about.

It's a love story, though. I know that much.

"You've read it before?" I ask Spike quietly, eyes glued to his face as he flips through the pages of the book on top. I can see it now, from where I'm sitting, that it says Volume I on the spine.

Spike nods, scanning the pages quickly, not looking up at me. "Caught hell for it, too," he adds absently, dragging his eyes away from the words before him long enough to smile at me before glancing at Mom again. "Not exactly a manly read, is it?"

I turn to look at Mom too, and she's grinning back at us, her eyes darting between her daughter and the vampire that loves her. "It's very…fitting," she says cheekily, a mischievous glint in her eye.

I don't know what she means, but Spike seems to, because he chuckles appreciatively.

I frown, glancing at Dawn who looks just as lost as I do. I don't like it.

"Fitting?" I ask, looking back to Mom. "Why fitting? What's fitting about it?"

Spike reaches toward me, tucking a curled lock of hair behind my ear and drawing my attention back to him. "I'll explain it to you later, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.

Everything in me melts at the word, the way it sounds rolling off his lips. It's the first time he's ever called me anything except for the standard pet, or luv. Well, besides kitten, but I'd nipped that in the bud real fast.

This, though. This I like.

I've yet to test out any pet names on him. Well, apart from Willow's spell last year, when I'd decided to go with honey. And even then, even with the spell, it had sounded weird. Too…fluffy for someone like Spike. But maybe that was just because I didn't really know the vampire then. Hadn't cared to.

"Later is good," I say, leaning imperceptibly into his touch, enjoying the gentle play his thumb makes over my jaw line.

"Later is great," Mom says, standing up and moving over to the side table where the lamp sits and pulling out the tiny drawer, there fishing something out of it before closing it again. "Because I have one more gift here."

And she tosses whatever it is in her hand toward us, Spike's reflexes acting quickly, reaching up and deftly snatching it out of the air. I watch as he turns his palm over to reveal a silver key. I recognize it easily.

The key to the front door.

She's given him a key to the house.

"Mom?" I ask, turning to look at her, brow furrowed. Not understanding. Not wanting to get my hopes up.

"Oh," she says, smile slipping a little. "Was that too subtle?" She half throws her hands up, looking disappointed. "I was worried it might be too subtle."

"Afraid it might be," Spike says, his own eyes fixed on the tiny piece of metal in his hand.

"Well, you know you're always welcome here, Spike. I just wanted you to be able to…come and go whenever you want. Even if the girls and I aren't here. School will be starting again next week, and with me working a few hours at the Gallery—"

My vampire is up and off the sofa in a flash, the books he'd held in his lap a moment ago pushed aside, relegated to the pile beside the box that contains his new t-shirts. And he's standing in front of Mom, pulling her into a hug before she has a chance to get another word out.

She laughs, looking at me from over his shoulder and making a face that's half bemused and half delighted, patting his back gently.

"I hope that means you like it," she says lightly, smiling warmly at Spike as he releases her, stepping back slightly.

"Best bloody Christmas 've ever had," he concedes, turning back around to look first at Dawn, and then at me.

"Great," Mom says, clapping her hands together happily. "Well, everyone should be here any minute, so Dawn?" My sister turns to look at her. "Help me finish setting the table?"

Dawn sighs, grumbling a little as she un criss crosses her legs and stands up, shuffling passed Spike, who hooks an arm around her and tugs her into a firm side hug as she moves around him.

"Aren't you forgettin' somethin'?" he asks her pointedly, using his grip on her shoulders to turn her around until she's facing the coffee table. And his new mug. "Need somethin' to drink supper out of, yeah?"

Dawn maneuvers out of his grasp, leaning forward and snatching the red and black mug off the table before turning back to him.

"Do you like it?" she asks, her voice hopeful.

Spike grins at her, nodding. "Love it."

Dawn, satisfied by the response, grins back at him and hurries into the foyer and through the doorway into the dining room.

"So, I begin, putting my hands on the sofa cushions to push myself up onto my feet. "Still not in the Christmas spirit?"

Spike nods thoughtfully, approaching me with slow, measured steps. "Did you know she was goin' to do that?" He asks me.

"Buy you a book?" I ask, intentionally misunderstanding and shrugging casually. "Why, was it not on your list?"

Spike chuckles, a deep vibration from low in his throat and he smirks. His gaze is heated as it rakes over me. "'S mostly symbolic, I'm guessin'," he muses, still slowly stepping toward me, holding the key out in front of him. "Don't imagine I'll be doin' too much comin' and goin' durin' the hours you ladies are out."

I nod. "Still," I muse back, taking a small step forward of my own to meet him halfway. "Mom never gave Angel a key." I shrug, tilting my head to the side. "Even with that shiny soul of his."

It's become a running joke for us. Sure, Spike and I had gone along readily with Willow and Tara's idea that the connection between Spike and I might mean we were sharing a soul. Once I'd explained my reasoning to Spike, it hadn't been hard to convince him to play along. Anything to convince Giles the chip could come out. Anything to make the tension between us all die down just a little.

It had worked, too. Like a charm.

I still haven't decided if it's good or bad, how easily, how quickly it had made everyone's attitudes change.

Even without proof, even knowing nothing else. But I guess I remember when I used to think it made all the difference, too, so I can't be too surprised…can't hold it against them too much.

Spike chuckles, dropping the key into his jean pocket and reaching for me, winding two strong hands around my waist.

"Means a lot, you know," Spike says, tilting his own head to mimic my position, eyes burning heatedly into mine. "Havin' me here tonight."

I look up into his face, frowning slightly. "Christmas is a family holiday, Spike," I step a little closer to him, feeling his hands tighten possessively around my waist. "Where else would you be?"

Spike inhales deeply, turning his eyes over my shoulder, toward the Christmas tree. He shakes his head. "'S real, right?" He asks quietly, still not looking at me. He narrows his eyes and I watch the dancing lights from the tree mirrored in his irises. "This. You, me." He turns his head toward the dining room. "Them. 'S all real?"

I reach up and place my hands flat on his chest and sigh, can't help form feeling the tiniest bit frustrated that he's always so quick to need reassurance. Another thing I've come to learn about him. He isn't half as cocky or self assured as he seems.

I'd found myself thinking a lot over the past weeks that he'd feel differently if he could see his reflection.

But it's Christmas, and all I got him was a set of lame t-shirts. So I nod and whisper, "The realest."

"Do you want your gift now?" He asks me, pulling me a little tighter against him. "Or later?"

I frown at him. "Was that an innuendo?"

Spike chuckles, rolling his eyes. "Despite what you might think, pet, I don't actually have a one track mind."

Good.

That makes one of us, at least.

"Oh," I say, trying hard not to sound disappointed. "I thought you were going to change," I say, reaching my hands up and twisting them in the silky fabric of his button down.

"Gift for you, first," he says, letting go of me and stepping to the side, leaning down and picking up a beautifully gift wrapped package that I know instantly by looking at it he didn't do himself. "Then I'll change."

I take it from him, eyeing him through my lashes. "I thought I said no gifts," I say, mimicking him from earlier, and pretty badly at that.

If it offends him in any way, he doesn't show it.

"You did," he concedes with a nod of his head. "I just didn't bloody care."

I sit down on the sofa, in the spot he'd been occupying earlier and he takes up residence on the floor, on his knees at my feet.

It's a ring.

Or, more specifically, it's…three rings. Three thick, gorgeous gold bands, one each for my pointer, middle and ring finger, soldered together on the sides so as to form one long line. And on the top, a golden cross. The same thick gold as the bands, with gleaming red gem stones outlining it.

"Do you like it?" Spike asks, and I can feel his eyes on my face even though I'm not looking at him.

I smile softly, nodding my head. I reach into the box and pick it up, examining it more closely.

It's heavy.

I want to ask him how he paid for it, but I don't.

"Had a little help from the lover wiccas," Spike admits, almost as though he's reading my mind. "Knowing how to go about gettin' this made."

My eyes snap up to his.

"You had this made for me?" I ask, my voice soft.

Spike looks at me sweetly, but like it should be obvious. "You think what you've got there is in high demand?"

I consider this, looking down again, picking the ring up and sliding it over my onto my left hand.

It's beautiful. And deadly. I can tell by the weight of it, now that it's resting against my skin, that it's meant to be more than just a pretty piece of jewelry.

"It's a weapon," I muse, flexing my hand, enjoying the way the golden bands tighten and fit against my knuckles.

"Just a little extra protection," Spike agrees, his voice low, "for when I'm not there."

I turn my eyes to his, raising both brows skeptically. "You think I need protecting?"

He makes a face at me, tilting his head down and narrowing his eyes, dropping his voice to deep purr. "I think I'm not takin' any chances."

Everything about the way he says it warms me from the inside out.

"I love it." I lean down and press a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek. "Thank you, William."

He freezes suddenly, pulling slightly away from me, his eyes ducked.

"'M gonna go change," he says, shifting around me, pushing himself to his feet and grabbing for the blue cotton v-neck on the sofa beside me.

I frown, watching him, seeing as his back disappears around the corner and up the wooden staircase.

"Okay," I say, sure he can still hear me.

A moment later, the doorbell rings, heralding the first arrival of the night. Giles, I assume, who's normally the first to arrive at things like this.

And as I move to open the door, I halfway wonder if that's the reason Spike had run off so quickly, or if it had simply been my use of his given name.

Dinner is awkward, but not as awkward as I expect it to be. I imagine a lot of that has to do with Mom.

But it's nice. It's nice to have everyone here, and to go one night, just one, without mentioning the demon connection, or what it means, or any other theories that are floating around about it.

There's only some brief tension between Spike and Xander when the vampire first entered the dining room, after changing into the blue t-shirt, and the tension isn't even over me.

"Whoa," Anya had said immediately, her voice low, appreciative, eyes raking over the peroxided blonde.

She hadn't been wrong. With his platinum curls slightly tousled from dragging the t-shirt of his head, the fitted cotton stretching over his chest, the v-neck dipping just enough to show a little of his smooth, pale skin. Sleeves just long enough to show off the hardest cut of his biceps. And the color. Maybe it wouldn't have been so striking if I hadn't been used to seeing him wear such dark colors, so much black. Or maybe it wouldn't have been quite so jarring if it hadn't matched the shade of his irises so perfectly.

I'm not sure.

As it was when he'd set foot in the room, he'd actually stolen the air from my lungs. And he'd noticed when it happened, too. Felt the flood of white heat between us, and sent me a knowing smirk from across the table.

So, yeah. Safe to say those shirts had definitely been more of a gift to me than to him.

Xander had sent a scathing look in the vampire's direction, grabbed Anya's hand, and directed her to their chairs at the table.

But that had been the worst of it, really. Maybe everyone had decided ahead of time to be on their best behavior due to the holiday.

"Are you still hungry?" I ask Spike now, leaning over to whisper in his ear, not wanting to interrupt the happy conversation going on around us.

He shakes his head. "'M fine, pet," he assures me, lifting his new mug up demonstratively. "Can fit two whole bags in here." He tosses Dawn a quick wink after noticing her eyes on us. "Bloody brilliant."

She beams back at him, looking very proud, and I feel a little surge of softness in my chest. How effortlessly the vampire beside me has taken to my sister, and she to him.

It makes me wonder, not for the first time in the last few weeks, about his family. Not Drusilla and Angel, not his vampiric family, but his real one. Before he was turned. The Pratts. Did he have a kid sister like I do? An older brother, maybe? And his parents. His mother. Who were they?

I still get glimpses here and there, little insights, brief looks into who William had been. The more comfortable Spike gets around me the more he lets that part of him show. He'd shown me on more than one occasion how well educated he'd been. Shown me, too, on even more occasions than that how deep seated his desire for romanticism is. How strongly he feels things. Everything.

But he hasn't told me anything. Not really. Sure, he lets it slip sometimes when he forgets to keep a tight hold on his Big Bad image and drops his guard, flashes of the sensitive gentleman he must have been shining through the carefully cultivated punk-rock-I'm-a-vampire-fear-me exterior.

So, no, he hadn't told me. And I hadn't asked. Not after I made the mistake the first time, a couple weeks ago. Had pushed him when he'd told me he hadn't wanted to talk about it, had argued back and forth briefly over it because I hadn't understood, and he'd left the house in a flurry if black leather and pulsing anger. True, Spike had come back to the house a short few hours later and had offered me a halting apology, but I'd gotten the message pretty loud and clear. The Pratt Family— squarely in the not ready to talk about it category.

Still, now especially, I'm thinking there's something to it. A soft spot, very clear affection and an easiness with my sister and mother that I just feel has to come from past experience.

"Glad you like it," Dawn's saying now, referencing the now drained mug on the table in front of Spike. Then she pauses, making a serious face. "Just don't get any ideas about me washing it for you."

Spike puts his hand out, palm up, fingers together and shakes his head once. "Wouldn't dream of it, Niblet."

I watch from my seat as the two of them engage in light, frivolous banter about whether or not vampire's dream, and why they sleep, and whether or not they actually need sleep or if they just do it, you know, out of habit.

I never would have guessed that the two of them would get along so well, but they do. Then again, I never would have guessed a lot of things.

That Mom would take to Spike so quickly. That she would be so completely fine with everything we'd had to tell her. That Willow and Tara would find a way to be so okay with it that they'd helped him with my Christmas present. That Xander might come around enough to at least be civil.

And the biggest thing, perhaps, is me. That I could love Spike. That I could fall in love with him and never even realize it.

Maybe I never would have known, if it hadn't been for the dreams. For the connection. For Dracula.

It makes my chest ache to think about. Only a few months, and we've really only been together for…what? Three real weeks? A month at most?

It feels like a lifetime.

I'm jarred out of my thoughts by the gentle pressure of his hand on my leg, kneading softly. I whip my head toward him and smile. He smiles back.

"I think we're just about ready for pie," Mom says, standing up and lifting her empty plate into her hands. She looks toward me. "Buffy, would you help me clear the plates?"

I smile at her and nod. "Sure." I reach down and remove the napkin from my lap, letting my hand trail over Spike's as I do, squeezing it once before removing it and placing it back in his own lap. I give him a stern look, and he smirks back at me.

Neither of us miss the soft groan from across the table.

"Then I'll be pretty much ready for barf," Xander says, and my eyes turn to his. I can't tell if he's talking about the food or about the display he's just seen from Spike and I.

The flush of irritation I feel tells me Spike thinks it's the latter.

"Xander," I scold instantly, my eyes narrowed at him meaningfully. I press a soothing hand against my vampire's forearm, waiting for the tumultuous emotion to fade slightly before removing my hand and getting to my feet.

"No, no," Xander corrects himself hurriedly to me, and then his eyes go wide as he realizes both implications of what he's just said and turns to my mom. "Barf from the eating. 'Cause all was good." He clears his throat awkwardly, and Spike is enjoying his discomfort far too much. "And too much goodness…"

Mom makes a face at him, eyebrows raised. "I'm taking it as a compliment."

I pick up my plate and reach for the empty plates beside me as well, turning finally to pick Spike's mug up and carry it into the kitchen. He stops me with a gentle hand over mine, a quick shake of his head, and gets to his feet as well. I can feel all eyes on us as he takes the stack of empty plates from me, balancing them on the palm of his left hand and picking up his blood stained mug in the right.

"Thanks," I say softly, my lips curving up at the corners.

Spike shrugs casually, managing to keep a tight balance on the plates. "'S the least I can do."

Xander's mouth literally drops open. I see it happen out of the corner of my eye. Spike just shoots me a mischievous wink, his eyes twinkling with undisguised triumph, and heads for the kitchen.

"Yes," Giles says, clearing his throat and turning his eyes toward Mom, away from us. "Uh, everything was delicious." He offers her a warm smile and stands up, reaching forward and taking the stacked plates from Mom the same way Spike had taken them from me. She smiles back and nods as he moves past her into the kitchen.

I watch him as he goes, nibbling on my lip, feeling a little antsy at the thought of the two of them in the kitchen alone. Together. With lots of pointy knives and wooden utensils.

"Yes," Anya adds cheerily, beaming at Xander, "I'm going to barf too."

My eyes go wide as they meet Mom's again, but she just forces tight smile, her eyebrows raised as she reaches for the last plate near her. "Everyone's so sweet."

"Yeah," I mumble, turning and giving Xander another wide eyed, brow raised look. "Real sweet."

He gives me an answering look and throws his hands up in the air. "Whattya want from me?"

"I want you to be nice," I tell him, lowering my voice a little and leaning across the table to pretend to pick something up from the far side.

"I am nice," he insists stubbornly, lowering his voice in turn. "I'm very nice. See me sitting here, minding my own business and not staking your boyfriend?"

I think he's kidding, but I'm not 100% sure.

"Not that he hasn't thought about it," Anya chimes in, that little needed dose of honesty making the muscle in Xander's jaw tighten as he turns to give her a look.

"I haven't," he explains, turning to look back at me. "Not…seriously, anyway."

I roll my eyes, but decide to let it be for now, letting everyone chat amongst themselves and turning to follow the path I'd seen Mom take a minute ago into the kitchen.

I walk in on chaos.

Spike at the sink, Giles standing beside him, both their voices low and tense. I'd felt some anger a moment ago but I hadn't been able to tell for sure if it was mine or the vampires. Now, though, I think I have a good idea.

"You know as bloody well as I do that it's the most logical explanation," Spike hisses, his voice quiet, strained with the effort of holding in his temper.

"We both also know that you're opinion isn't exactly unbiased in the matter," Giles argues back, voice just as low.

But I'm only able to make out the tale end of the conversation before Mom shouts "Damn it!"

I turn toward her just in time to see her slam the oven door closed, drop a very crispy looking pie down onto the island counter top. She looks up at me, cheeks flush. "I hate this oven. It burnt."

"Oh, no," I say quickly, forgetting completely about the brief exchange I'd just witnessed between the two most important men in my life and turning my full attention to Mom. "It's just blackened." I step up to the counter, eyeing the burnt top, the black crust. "You know, it's, it's Cajun pie."

Giles steps away from the sink, turning to pick up a fresh bottle of wine off the counter beside it and turning toward Mom.

"Shall I open another?" he asks her, already with the corkscrew in his free hand. We've already been through two bottles tonight.

"Oh," Mom says thoughtfully, a slightly wicked gleam in her as she looks at my Watcher. "Do you think we dare?"

A moment passes between them, and I can't help myself. Keeping my eyes down on the burnt pie, reaching absently for the pie server beside it, I shrug casually. "As long as you two stay away from the band candy, I'm cool with anything."

I don't have to look at Giles to see the stricken look on his face, to know exactly what he's thinking. I hear him do that very British, uncomfortable throat clearing thing, murmuring something unintelligible before he turns on his heel and heads back into the living room.

Behind me, Spike chuckles, and I turn to glance at him over my shoulder in time to see him wiping his hands on one of Mom's dish towels. Scarred brow raised, azure eyes a perfect match the the soft blue of the t-shirt.

Domestic looks good on him. Absurdly good.

"Wanna fill me in on that little story?" he asks, directing the question to both me and Mom as he tosses the towel lazily onto the counter.

"No," Mom says quickly, instantly, fixing my vampire with a very motherly look that threatens to wipe the knowing smirk right off his face. "She doesn't." Then to me, voice a low, amused whisper. "You are a demon child."

I grin at Spike as he moves around us, hands raised as if in surrender, watching him until he's gone. Then I turn forward again and lean my shoulder into Mom's. "I live to torment you, is that so wrong?"

She sighs like agreeing with me is a chore and nods her head, smiling down at me softly. "A daughter's duty, I suppose."

"Look," I say, angling the pie server, "all we have to do is just cut off a little bit of the burnt…" I cut into the pie as I say it, and the entire thing falls off the edge of the counter. Mom screams, I give a half involuntary shout as I try and catch it, and we both dissolve into giggles as it lands face down on the floor.

"I'm sorry," I tell Spike a couple hours later, moving at a leisurely pace through the Sunnydale Cemetery, a cold, dry wind kicking up dead leaves and swirling them around our feet as we go.

It had been a last minute decision, to patrol tonight at all. But Spike had explained that Christmas is sort of...the opposite of Halloween. Instead of all the big nasties hiding out and taking the night off, they decide to come out in full force. Be all with the havoc wreaking while us humans are happily eating our pumpkin pie and opening presents.

So once dinner had ended, and the gang had filtered out, we'd geared up and headed out pretty soon after. It had been the first time in weeks we'd taken patrol together, so we'd taken it easy. Stuck close together. No toying with vamps when we find them, either. Just some quick stakeage and on to the next.

With the added bonus of me getting to test out my new present, which, it turns out, is as lethal as it is gorgeous. I'd decided to wear it on my right hand tonight to give my right cross a little extra oomph, and boy,howdy, it had worked like a charm. Like a really heavy, gold, jewel encrusted charm.

"What for?" Spike asks, glancing at me as he comes to a stop beside a couple day old grave, sensing the same thing I have. The shifting of earth, the subtle scratching sounds coming from below the ground. I fall in beside him, reaching back into my waistband for my stake and turning my eyes down to the freshly packed dirt.

I sigh, shoulders sagging as I mumble "For getting you such a lame present."

There's a rush of frustration from the vampire beside me, and just the slightest hint of confusion. I'd know what he was thinking even if I couldn't feel it, though, for the way he says my name now. "Buffy." Low and smooth, a touch of a warning. Like he knows exactly what I'm thinking and doesn't even want me entertaining the idea.

I keep my eyes on the ground and shake my head, ignoring him. "It _is._ It's lame. Dawn got you something way useful, and Mom got you something really, really thoughtful. And you with the specially made…" I trail off, eyeing the cross ring as I wrap my hand tighter around the stake. I sigh. "And here I am with the 'here honey, have some t-shirts'." I turn my eyes up to the open, empty sky. "God, I _suck_."

Spike opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn't get a chance. A moment later, the fledgling vampire claws first one hand and then the other out of the dirt, bracing them on the grass on either side of her grave and struggling to dig her head out, too.

Spike and I don't even look at each other, just reach forward simultaneously, each of us taking hold of one of her wrists and yanking her roughly out the rest of the way. I let go of her hand and toss the stake over to Spike, who catches it in mid air effortlessly.

She falls into an instinctive hunting position, no doubt having smelled my blood, and snarls at me. I fall back into my own fighting stance, pausing just a moment to gather the strength behind my arm and throwing a hard right jab to her nose, a left cross to her cheek, and ending with a right hook to her jaw. It leaves two angry cross shaped brands in her skin, and she growls and snarls in pain, even as the force from my last hook send her flying directly into Spike, who flips the stake in his hand before slamming it smoothly into the fledgling's heart and watching her float away on the wind.

Once gone, he turns directly around toward me again, eyes flashing with all the frsutatriong I's felt from him a moment ago.

"You have any idea how precious it is?" He asks me tersely, his voice still low as he takes a step closer to me. "What you've given me?"

I frown at him, catching the stake as he tosses it back to me. "They're just a cotton blend—"

"Not the _sodding_ t-shirts, Buffy," he growls, cutting me off and stepping closer to me again. His eyes are dark in the moonlight, gleaming with something I still haven't grown used to seeing. Abject adoration. For me. It's always there, even when he's frustrated, or annoyed, or growling at me like he is now. It never goes away, never fails to steal my breath and root me to the spot. " _You_."

I blink at him, still gripping the stake awkwardly, trying to wrap my head around what it is he's saying. "Me?"

Spike nods, and the gleam in his eye softens as he stops moving, having already stepped fully into my personal space. Well, I guess calling it _my_ personal space isn't even really accurate. It feels lately like we're practically sharing everything.

"You let me in," he murmurs, his voice still tense but different. Tense with meaning now instead of the slight irritation at me over beating myself up about the lameness of his gift. "Let me know you, your family." Spike reaches for me, brushing the tips of two cool fingers along the hollow of my cheek, making the skin there go all tingly. He exhales, half laugh and half sigh, tilting his head to the side. "You know how many years it's been since I've felt like I did tonight? Too bloody many to count." His fingertips move down my jaw until his hand is cupping the back of my neck gently. "Spendin' this night with you, sweetheart." He's so close to me now that I can taste the hazy mint of his cigarette smoke over my lips. " _That's_ the gift."

And I think it's the way he says it that makes me believe him. That maybe I've managed to give him something important, something special without even realizing it. I feel my shoulder relax, melting into his touch as the slow spread of warmth works it's way through the tension in my chest.

"I like it when you call me that," I tell him softly.

His answering chuckle send shivers down my spine. "I know," he says, grinning cheekily down at me, eyes twinkling. "Felt it earlier."

Of course he did. I narrow my eyes at him, shaking my head slowly. "Cheater."

The hand cupping the back of my neck tightens it's grip, pulling me closer to him, the soft swell of his bottom lip just barely grazing mine as he chuckles again and whispers, "You love it."

"Against my better judgement," I whisper back against his lips before surging forward and covering his mouth with mine, swallowing his soft groan of pleasured surprise as his fingers knead the skin at the nape of my neck.

"So you don't mind the t-shirts?" I ask him, pulling back to nibble at his bottom lip, bringing my hands up to his stomach so I can fist the soft blue cotton.

Spike just shakes his head, hungrily claiming my lips again, his arm dropping to wrap around my waist and pull me tighter to him. "No," he whispers heatedly, the hand at my neck moving up to thread into my hair, "don't mind 'em."

A sharp flash, a flood of heat directly to my core as my pelvic bone comes flush against his. I twist my hands harder in the shirt, thumbs slipping below the hem to graze along the flat planes of his stomach, the sharp v-lines across his hips. He gasps, in surprise again, I think. I'm not normally the aggressor in situations like this.

Definitely not in the middle of patrol.

Not that we've had a lot of opportunity lately.

Truthfully, for as much and as often and as completely dripping with sex and innuendo as Spike always seems to manage to be, the past three weeks have seen very little in the way of true intimacy. When we're together, we're usually researching. Or spending time with Mom, and Dawn. Not alone. Rarely, actually, are we _ever_ alone. Even when Spike does spend the night at our house, his sweet, albeit misguided sense of Victorian values that he loves to claim are long dead usually prevent him from staying with me in my room. At least, not for the whole night.

So this, right here. His lips, our mouths, the flavor of smoke and the tang of blood as his tongue sweeps over mine. The wind whipping around us, strong fingers pulling at my hair, the heady feel of him against me. Grinding his hips sensually against mine as he lets out these deep, urgent growls of approval.

Even just _this_. This is good. Most definitely necessary.

I break away from his lips just long enough to press a trail of kiss over his jaw line. "I don't mind 'em, either," I say, my voice a husky, womanly whisper that I don't think even I knew I was capable of as I remember exactly what it was I'd thought when he'd set foot in the dining room earlier tonight.

Spike groans again, both hands tightening around me, pulling me more flush against him. "That right?" He breathes, almost sounding pained, and I find myself gasping against his skin when he nudges my legs apart, slipping his denim clad thigh between them.

If we keep this up we're going to be in a world of trouble.

"Mmhm," I manage, turning my attention to his neck, leaving hot, open mouthed kisses down from just below his ear the hollow of his throat, enjoying the way his muscles tense, the way the heat moving between us rages higher and higher the lower my lips travel over his skin.

 _Trouble_ , I think blankly, opening my mouth and sinking blunt teeth into the curve where his shoulder meets his throat. He shudders against me, my name leaving his lips on a strangled, masculine whimper.

And then it all stops.

Over, as quickly as it began, the heat vanishes replaced by a heat of a different kind. A searing, blinding pain focused somewhere in the vicinity of my upper right shoulder, just over the blade.

I cry out and fall forward, hands still gripping the fabric of Spike's t-shirt, and the pain is starting to spread. Radiating out from the pin point in my shoulder and threading itself through my right arm, down the right side of my body.

And everything's hazy. I don't understand.

Spike drops his hand from my hair, using both arms now to fully support me, growling a complaint in his throat as I'm sure he's feeling something similar to what I am.

Except this. This is new. The pain is still there, but now things are shifting. Changing.

"Oh, God," I whimper, just as my legs give out, my entire body going numb.

Spike's arms grip me tighter, keeping me upright. "Buffy," he says urgently, his voice low in my ear, a litttle hazy sounding through the numbness and the rapidly dwindling pain. "What is it?"

I shake my head, opening my mouth to speak. Nothing comes out. No sound. My tongue feels thick, heavy.

I shake my head again.

Spike pulls me closer against him, and I can see his eyes. Glowing feral, yellow. He's vamped out, scanning the tree line behind me, knowing at this point exactly what it is that I know. Besides being able to have felt the initial sting of pain, I wonder if he can feel the numbness, too.

Probably not, I reason dimly, recognizing that he's still standing very much upright. Still very much in control of his arms and legs. I kind of wonder why, but don't have the energy to ask. To question it.

My head is spinning. Padded. Like it's been stuffed full of cotton. And my eyelids are heavy, suddenly. I can't keep them open.

A tranquilizer. Maybe a tranquilizer dart.

From somewhere in the deepest recesses of my mind, I recognize it. Granted, no, I've never been shot with one before. But I've seen them. Know how they work. Had seen Riley and the other commandos use them before, tons of times last year.

With the Initiative.

 _The Initiative._

"Bloody hell," Spike hisses, and I wonder if he's spotted something. It stings again, a sharp stabbing pain, for a moment as Spike's hand closes around the end of what I assume is the back end of the tranq dart and yanks it away from me.

My eyes are closed.

And the next instant we're moving. He's lifted my dead weight up into his arms, tucking me closely against his chest and he's moving at a fathomless vampiric speed back through the cemetery. He knows, too. I can feel it. A wash of instant, immediate rage coupled with an intense anxiety of knowing. Knowing we need to get out of here. Regroup.

Keep whoever, whatever, it is that's shot me from getting a hold of either of us. And I don't know where it comes from. Don't know why I feel so certain that it's true. But it's the last coherent thought I have, just before the darkness falls.

 _The Initiative is back in Sunnydale._


	36. Chapter 35

Consciousness fades in and out. I never fully become coherent, but I'm just aware enough to feel the rushing of the wind whipping past us as we move quickly through the night. Enough to hear the low voice in my ear, but not enough to make out the words it's saying. Everything is black. Heavy, numb. My body is fighting it, I think. Trying at least.

I cling to the last vestiges of consciousness I have before the tranquilizer completes its job.

I wake up in pain.

Great, shuddering, full body heaving spasms of pain. It's the only thing I'm aware enough to recognize, to feel, the haze in my brain impossible to clear for all the spasms I feel rocketing through me now.

And every once in awhile, through the grogginess of the pain, I hear voices. Low murmurs, like they're trying not to wake me up, don't want me to hear what they're saying.

Low, growling. Male. For sure, two of the voice are male.

And one more high pitched, tinkling. Panicked.

Female.

" _...we should think about this first. We don't want to risk doing any damage…"_

" _Think the damage has already been, done yeah?"_

" _That's all well and good, but we don't know what's going to happen if we—"_

There's a rustling sound, like clothing, something heavy being thrown down to the ground and a menacing growling sound, followed quickly by another rippling wave of pain.

My eyes are open, I think. It's hard to tell because everything is so dark. And fuzzy.

Dark and fuzzy and distant, and every few seconds or so another earth shattering stab of pain comes rolling forward, starting at the base of my skull and radiating upward until it's everywhere.

The voices are still there, too. As the haziness subsides and the pain becomes stronger, I can hear them. Clearer, clear enough now for me to recognize who they're coming from.

"…don't care if you have to cut through the entire sodding thing," I hear, and the voice is unmistakeable to my ears, even with it fading in and out. I think I'd know it anywhere. Spike. "Just _get it outta me_."

Then, the other male voice, clearer this time. Clear enough for me to recognize it, too.

"What do you think I'm trying to do?" Giles asks, sounding strained. Both annoyed and flustered. There's a clinking sound, maybe metal on metal, and he sighs loudly. "You have to hold _still_."

I blink again, vision still blurred, but slowly clearing. Like my hearing, like the voices earlier, the room around me starts to take shape. I can see outlines at least, shapes, enough now that I can see where it is that I am. Giles's apartment. His living room.

I shift slightly, my muscles like lead and realize that it's his sofa I'm lying on now.

And all the voices— Spike, Giles, the female voice that I'd be willing to bet is Willow—are coming from the other side of it, where I can't see. I'd have to lift myself up, grip the edge of the sofa's back and lean over it to see what it is that's happening.

And I don't think that's an option right now.

I open my mouth to try and speak, to call out. Maybe if they know I'm awake, if I call out, _someone_ will have to tell me what exactly's going on here.

No sound comes out.

Just like back in the cemetery, my tongue won't move. It's thick and sticks to the roof of my mouth and the muscles in my throat are too tense.

So that's no good.

Gritting my teeth against the stiffness in my muscles, focusing all my energy on my movements, I attempt to shift the dead weight of my body back. Pressing my elbows into the sofa and hoisting myself up into something that vaguely resembles a sitting position. I manage, but it feels like it takes forever. Minutes that seem to stretch on for ages, the aching all over my body growing worse by the second.

But I manage, twisting around, peering over the edge of the sofa just in time for another gut wrenching stab of pain to hit my head, making me wince, squeeze my eyes closed tight against the onslaught.

"Bloody _fuck_ ," Spike hisses, and my eyes snap back open in time to see his arms jerking involuntarily where he's seated. Straddling the back of one of Giles's kitchen chairs, strong hands gripping the back of it so tightly that I can make out the blue veins running along his biceps. "That _hurts_ , you git."

I turn my shaky gaze to Giles, who's holding a sharp looking knife in one hand and what looks like a pair of tweezers in the other. Willow stands behind him, a flashlight in her left hand and an open book laying flat across the palm of her left.

"I'm not a bloody surgeon, Spike," Giles says tersely, indicating for Willow to adjust the angle of the flashlight. "You wanted this done, and you wanted it done quickly. This is the best we could do on such short—"

Spike cries out again, his shoulder muscles spasming violently, corresponding to the spasms ricocheting through my own body, just as a sharp stabbing pain hits me hard in the back of my skull.

I cry out, too, before I can stop myself. The sound is strangled and hoarse, but it's there.

Several pairs of eyes shoot toward me at once. Willow's green, Giles's grey, and barest azure of Spike's as he swivels his head around as far as he can. It's his eyes I focus on, what I can see of them as they widen, taking in my appearance. It's a look I don't think I've seen on his face very often, but I don't think I'll forget it, even with the grogginess still surrounding me.

Fear.

"Willow," Giles says instantly, his voice it's own, slightly panicked timbre. He hardly bothers to look at me for longer than an extended second before his attention is back on the head of the vampire in front of him.

Willow's eyes, however, are glued to mine. Wide, panicked. There's fear on her face, too, but I'm not sure it's for the same reasons.

Whatever it is they're seeing when they look at me, I get the bague, distant feeling that it has to be something bad.

"But—" she begins, but Spike's loud growl cuts her off.

"C'mon Red," he snarls, gritting his teeth as another wave of pain shoots through both of us. "You promised."

The redheaded witch is still staring at me, the deer in preverbal headlights. And I'm too out of it, in too much pain, to fully comprehend what it is that I'm seeing.

"I know," she says, conceding to the vampire, admitting that she promised him something. What, I don't know. "But—"

Another jerking spasm as the tweezers in Giles's hand come in contact with…something, and Spike's chip fires. My own strangled cry of pain is drowned out by his much louder roar. Giles hurriedly drops the knife down onto the table, using his free hand to clamp down on my vampire's shoulder to keep him steady, the pressure of his fingers easing the aftershocks there.

"Willow, please," he says, his voice rough and ragged, commanding her eyes back toward him and away from me.

I still don't know, can't understand what I'm seeing. What's happening.

All I can think of is the pain that won't stop.

And there's blood, too. I can smell it. Thick and coppery and right below my nose, dripping down into my shirt and staining the white fabric with crimson.

Hazily, I reach a leaden hand up and wipe it across my face, below my nose, watching through still-blurry eyes as it comes back stained red.

 _Oh_. It's me.

I'm bleeding. My nose is bleeding.

I turn my eyes back toward the three of them and watch as Willow looks back at me one more time, her face scrunched up in indecision before she turns her attention down to the open book in her hand and begins to read. Whatever it is she's saying, I can't hear it. She's speaking too low, the words rushing too fast. I think it's English but I can't be sure.

It takes me starting to feel it before I realize what she's doing, that she's reading a spell. Putting some kind of spell on me. I can feel it, feel my eyelids drooping, getting tired, feel my grip on the sofa's edge loosening and my shoulders slumping back into the cushions behind me.

She's putting me to sleep.

And the last thing I hear is another anguished cry of pain from Spike before the world goes dark for the second time tonight.

When I come to the second time, there's no more pain.

Well, no more constant pain, I guess. I'm still aching. My muscles are tight, sore from the constant tightening they'd been doing earlier, and I can still smell the scent of blood in the air, though I think it's dry now.

I blink my eyes open to darkness, the only light in the room coming from a the tall floor lamp on the opposite side of Giles's small living room.

"Buffy," my Watcher's voice is soft, low, just beside my ear as I take in the room around me. "How are you feeling?"

Something cool and wet presses against my forehead, and I turn my head toward his voice to try and find him. He's sitting on the corner of the sofa, his hip beside my shoulder, looking down at me with worried eyes.

"What happened?" I ask, my voice hoarse. I wonder if it could be from all the screaming in pain I'd been doing.

"You were shot," he says calmly, his hand pressing the cool cloth closer to my heated skin. "A…tranquilizer dart of some kind, while you were patrolling. Spike brought you here after—"

I sit up so fast I knock the wash cloth from his hand, causing the hollow ache behind my eyes to return and sending the damp material flying toward my feet. I turn and grip his arm with entirely too much strength.

"Spike," I say urgently, my voice rising in pitch. The memories are starting to flood back to me now. Being in the cemetery. Getting shot. Running. Ending up here, on the sofa. "Where is he?" I ask, panicked. "Is he okay?"

I only dimly remember that I'd seen him here, in the apartment with me a few hours ago. I try and search for the memories, try and think about exactly what I'd seen. Sitting in that chair, Giles standing behind him. Willow, with the flashlight.

My heart is suddenly thundering against my chest.

"Shh," Giles soothes, sounding very father-like even as he grits his teeth against the pressure I'm exerting on his arm. "He's here. He's…resting."

It takes a minute for the pounding in my ears to slow down, but it does.

Here. Resting.

 _Right_.

Resting from…whatever it is they'd been doing last night.

Because when I'd woken up before, they'd been…doing something. I think about the flashlight again. Giles and the knife, the tweezers.

And Giles's words float back to me, as though from a half remembered dream.

" _I'm not a bloody surgeon, Spike."_

That's it, then. They'd been in the middle of performing some kind of makeshift surgery. On Spike.

On Spike's head.

"The chip?" I ask tentatively, lowering my voice now that I've been assured of my vampire's non-dusty status.

Giles nods once, reaching up to place a reassuring hand on top of mine. "We were able to remove it."

My brow furrows.

"We?" I ask, still feeling a little hazy, knowing even as the word leaves my lips that he's talking about Willow. I relax slightly, letting my sore shoulder muscles sink back down into the pillows of the sofa.

Another nod from my Watcher. "Willow and I, with a little help from the magicks." Then he makes an almost pained face, and glances away from me. "And a sharp kitchen knife and some tweezers."

For some reason, hearing him say it feels worse than remembering the images themselves.

I grimace at the description, the words bringing fresh rounds of mental pictures to my mind's eye. I fight the urge to reach back around and cradle my own head. No wonder it had hurt so much when I'd woken up. I hadn't just been feeling the chip firing, but the surgery itself.

Giles must see the expression on my face, because his expression shifts to a more apologetic one.

"Spike had wanted it out as quickly as possible," he explains, as though telling me that will make the choice of surgical implements seem less gruesome. "He'd…well he'd assumed it would cause you pain, so he'd been hoping to remove it while you were still under the effects of the tranquilizer."

And that's probably why things had been so foggy. The tranquilizer wearing off, coupled with the pain from the emergency surgery.

I nod, understanding dawning, the memories I do have from last night starting to crystalize and make sense. "And when I woke up…" I begin, purposefully leaving it open ended for Giles to finish.

Which he does, without missing a beat.

"We had Willow put you back under," he says, "yes."

That's what Spike had meant then, when he'd made a reference to a promise. He'd made Willow promise to use…whatever spell she'd used on me, once the tranq dart wore off.

It must have been a pretty powerful one, if she'd been so hesitant to use it. Or maybe she just hadn't felt like doing magic on me at all.

I'll have to ask her about it.

"But it's out?" I ask Giles now, searching his eyes with mine. "It's gone now?"

Something dark flickers behind his eyes at my question, but he nods anyway.

"Yes, Buffy," he says, and the way he says my name makes me feel kind of funny. "It's gone now."

It's weird. We'd been fighting over removing the chip for weeks now, and Giles had remained firm. He hadn't wanted to risk removing it until we understood better what it is we were dealing with, in terms of our connection.

So what had happened last night? What had Spike said to him to turn the tide, and so immediately?

"What made you change your mind?" I ask, frowning slightly as I consider what must have happened.

Giles leans back a ways so his back is against the sofa's armrest, folding his arms as best he can over his chest.

He isn't looking at me now.

"Honestly, Spike didn't give me much of a choice." He pauses briefly, his eyes down on the ground. "He was…quite shaken up when he came here. Worried about you, demanding that I take it out tonight."

But that can't be the only reason. After weeks of being so firm in his decision to wait, there had to have been something else. Something different about tonight.

"Still," I say softly, wishing that he'd look at me. "You don't trust Spike. That's what you'd said."

His eyes shoot toward mine so rapidly, flashing and hard, I almost think I've said something to offend him. His lips form a thin line as he looks at me before he agrees with me, his voice somber.

It catches me off guard when he adds, almost as an afterthought, "But you do."

It's this extra admission that makes me think that something else has happened. That something else is…wrong, here. But I'm not ready to delve into that mess quite yet, so I just nod, turning my own eyes down toward the ground and biting down on my lip.

"It's because of the Initiative," I say softly, thinking about the thought that had flashed through my head earlier, before I'd succumbed to the dart. "That's why Spike probably wanted it out tonight." I shift my eyes toward Giles, who's still looking at me. "They're back in town."

And the reasoning makes sense to me. What I know about what happened last night, coupled with what I'd seen when I'd woken up and the things Giles has told me now.

Of course Spike would want the chip removed after seeing them. How else would he be able to defend himself from them, and without causing me massive amounts of pain in the process?

"Yes," Giles murmurs his agreement, more like he's talking to himself now than to me. "That's what we'd feared."

It takes me a second once again to register what he's just said.

"Wait, what?" I shift back on the sofa so I can see him better, my forehead creasing in confusion. "You knew they were back?" And then I pause, frowning. "And who's we?"

Giles takes a minute to think about what he wants to say before he opens his mouth to speak, but I think I know what he's going to say before he does.

"Spike had his suspicions," he explains, and I feel my jaw tightening as I listen to him. "Things he'd seen himself, others he'd picked up here and there during his patrols from other demons." He sighs, getting to his feet, stepping around the coffee table to look back down at me. "There hadn't been any way to be certain, of course. Until now."

I feel fire blazing in my eyes as I gaze back at him, wondering if he'd anticipated my reaction and that's why he'd gotten up when he had. My cheeks are hot.

"Why didn't either you bother to tell _me_ about this?" I ask, voice tight, working hard to keep control of the temper I feel flaring wildly in my chest.

"You've had other things to worry about, Buffy." His hands are twitching nervously, one of them shoved into his pants pocket and the other reaching up to toy with the frames of his glasses. "We know how much you've had on your mind lately and we didn't think worrying you unduly was in your best interest."

Normally, under any other circumstance, I think I'd be sort of happy to hear that Giles and Spike had agreed on something. Now, though, all it does is feed the fire that's rapidly building in me, spreading now from my chest down to my gut. That they'd both known, or had their suspicions, and confide in each other about it but had never come to me? I'm the _Slayer._ I'm the one everyone is supposed to go to first.

I shift again, making a show of considering this new information, turning my eyes up to a corner of the ceiling.

"So the two of you just….got together and decided to wait for me to get _shot_ before telling me this?" I ask, sitting up a little straighter on the sofa so I can let the full range of my temper flare. I whip my eyes back to his, throw my hands up, gesturing vaguely around the room. "God, Giles, what if I'd been out there by _myself_ tonight? I mean, if Spike hadn't…" I trail off, the words growing thick on my tongue and my blood running cold as I think about other, much worse implications of what could have happened. I swallow hard, my eyes starting to burn from out of nowhere as I turn my eyes away from Giles and down to my hands. "What if _Spike_ had been out there by himself?"

Giles nods thoughtfully, his eyes angled down toward the open book on his coffee table. "That's something we discussed after dinner," he admits.

And it clicks with me. The tale end of whatever fight the two of them had been having over by the sink, after we'd cleared the dishes. Voices low and tense, talking about how whatever Spike had said was the most logical explanation, and Giles had said that his opinion wasn't unbiased…

"That's what you were arguing about in the kitchen?" I ask, needing the clarification from him out loud.

Giles just nods in answer. "Spike didn't want you going out to patrol alone anymore, and believed that if it was the Initiative we were dealing with, then the chip's removal should be a higher priority." Giles frowns, clearing his throat. I watch from my spot on the sore as that same cold look from before passes over his face. "And as it turns out, he was quite right to be concerned."

In spite of myself, I feel the corners of my lips tug up just slightly, tilting my head to the side to consider him. "That hard for you to admit, huh?"

The turn of his eyes up toward the ceiling is all the answer I need, but there's almost something soft in his voice when he responds with a muttered "You've no idea."

The smile that had been ghosting my lips falls a little as I start to glance around the room. I realize now I haven't seen Spike. Haven't even heard him since I'd woken up.

I frown, trying to figure where he might be. I've been lying on the sofa, the overstuffed chair is empty, and there's no place for Spike to be hiding anywhere else in the room.

Giles does have a guest bedroom, doesn't he? I'm not sure. I've never gone on the grand tour.

"Where is he?" I ask suddenly, not bothering to clarify who it is I'm talking about. If it isn't obvious by now, we have some bigger issues.

I'd expected a quick, easy answer.

That's not what I get.

Giles doesn't answer me for a very long minute. He just stands in front of me with his hands in his pockets, a strange look on his face. Like he isn't sure what it is he wants to say to me.

And I get that feeling again. That weird, aching feeling in my chest that something isn't right. That something isn't right, and that he doesn't want me to know about it.

My muscles tense as I lean forward. "Giles?"

Another beat.

Then, "Upstairs, in the loft."

In…the loft.

But that bed up there…that's Giles's bed. That's where _he_ sleeps.

Why would he have Spike rest there? Of all the places in the apartment he could catch a quick nap…

Giles sees it happen. Sees my eyes widen, my lips form a silent "o". That look that someone gets when they realize something horrible has happened.

I leap to my feet in an instant, ignoring the pounding in my head as I move for the stairs.

Giles lunges for me, wrapping a firm hand around my wrist and tugging me to a stop. I stop to turn toward him, my chest heaving now, heart hammering wildly against my ribs.

"What happened?" I ask him point blank, voice tight.

Giles doesn't let go of my wrist, and I don't try to pull away. He casts a cautious glance up toward the loft before sighing and focusing in on me.

"Removing the chip proved to be more…difficult than we'd anticipated. It was harder to find, deeper than we…Spike passed out from the pain, before we could finish." I watch him swallow hard, eyes searching mine almost pleadingly through the glass of his spectacles. When he speaks again, he almost sounds sorry. "I don't know for certain if I did any permanent damage or not."

My stomach drops, blood running cold. The room feels a little like it's spinning.

"What…what do you mean, permanent damage?" I ask him, and I'm only a little surprised at the unsteadiness of my voice. My eyes are burning.

Giles tightens his grip on my wrist, trying for reassuring I think. "We had to essentially perform brain surgery, Buffy," he says, his voice low, measured. The grip of his hand tenses and I feel my chest tighten again at his words. I'm not standing here anymore. Not standing in Giles's apartment, but in the Magic Box. All those months ago, standing in front of Giles and my friends and begging them for a way to help Mom. My head is aching, filled with all the things he'd told me that day. All the risks, the damage that could be done to someone's personality, whether through magic or medicine. "And as you know that comes with it's own risks–"

He stops mid-sentence when I yank my wrist violently free from his grip, panic rising in my throat, making my stomach roll. I'm over at the stairs, charging up them on slightly shaky legs before he can get another two words in. And when I reach the top of the stairs, I freeze.

In all the time I've known Spike, all the times I've fought him, worked with him, patrolled with him, slept with him…in four long years, I've never seen the vampire look like the dead man he is.

Until now.

Whoever brought him up here had taken their time to lay him out carefully, stretching his body gently across my Watcher's bed, on top of the comforter. His head is back, nestled into the pillow, his cheek turned to the side to allow the bandage at the back of his head room to breathe. His tousled platinum curls fall down over his forehead, his lips pale, cheeks sunken in.

It's his hands that really get to me, though. Folded together and resting low on his chest, which is immobile. Silent.

If I didn't have the presence of mind to recognize that he'd only be dead, truly _dead_ , if he was a pile of dust…I think I'd collapse to the ground right now.

That's how truly horrifying it is to see him like this.

"Buffy," Giles begins, laying a firm hand on my shoulder and guiding me further into the loft space.

"How long has he been like this?" I ask, letting his touch maneuver me into the room. I can't take my eyes off how incredibly still Spike looks. Before, even in sleep, he'd been moving. Fidgeting. Shifting from one side of the pillow to the other, murmuring softly under his breath. This is different.

Behind me, Giles sighs. "You've both been unconscious for almost a day."

I whip my head around to stare at him, wide eyed, but don't say anything. I'm too shocked to say anything.

A day.

My God, twenty four hours ago we were eating Christmas dinner and now…

My hands curl into fists at my sides as I think about the Initiative. Knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that this, what's happened to me, to Spike, is their fault.

He wouldn't have asked, demanded that Giles remove it so hastily if they hadn't…if he hadn't been afraid for _me_.

"I had hoped he might wake up when you did," he tells me softly, letting go of my shoulder and stepping up beside me.

I nod, eyes raking over Spike's immobile form, lingering on the hollows of his throat, how dark his lashes look across the ashen skin of his cheeks.

"What does it mean that he didn't?" I ask, half dreading the answer as I turn to meet my Watcher's eyes. He looks at me steadily for a long moment, grey gaze piercing in the moonlight that filters in behind him. Finally, he sighs, reaching up to remove his glasses and turning back to look at the inert vampire on his bed.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet. "I don't know."

I can hear it in the way he says it, too. What it means to him. What he thinks he's really saying. How bad he might really think things are, and how he won't tell me that.

So I don't press him. Just nod my head and step further into the room, leaving him staring into my back as I approach the bed. There's not one ounce, not a single moment of hesitation in my body. My knees brush the edge of the mattress and I reach up to remove my unbuttoned coat, letting it drop to the floor as I lower myself down onto the bed beside Spike.

Giles makes a small noise from behind me, but I ignore him.

My vampire doesn't move as I do it, but I don't expect him to. I lay down, stretching the length of my body alongside his, picking up his right arm and moving the dead weight of it until it's curling around my back. I drop my head down, tucking it into the curve of his shoulder, carefully entwining my fingers with his.

And I bury my face into Spike's neck, inhaling the scent of him, hoping that somehow my being here might be enough to get him to move. That my body heat will leech into his cool skin and wake him up.

I wait for what feels like ages, still aware that my Watcher is somewhere behind me, watching, Not caring that he is.

Long seconds melt into minutes, which turn into longer stretches. And still, nothing. No change.

I'm vaguely aware of the noises behind me. Giles clearing his throat, the sound of wood scraping over wood, the soft creak of the chair in the corner of Giles's bedroom as he sinks down into it.

"I'm not sure how long it'll take, Buffy," he says after another long while. Gently, his voice very soft in the silence of his apartment.

I sigh against Spike, curling my body more tightly into his and wondering if he can feel the heat radiating off me even with the whole being unconscious thing.

I take another deep breath and grimace at how shuddery it sounds before I exhale again and respond, my voice it's own low murmur. "Then I'll stay here as long as I have to."

The hours pass slowly. Six turns into twelve, twelve turns into twenty-four, and before I know it it's been a full day and a half of nothing. No movement. No stirring. No muffled moans, no eye movement.

Nothing.

That day and a half turns into two. Then three.

And after three, I lose count. All I know is that the days are passing. The sun rises in the east, floats across the sky, sets in the west. People wake up and go to work, drive to the store, visit with their friends.

The days keep coming, passing, and my vampire still hasn't woken up.

I sit in Giles's bedroom and I stare at him, watch him, will him with everything I have to wake up. To open those beautiful indigo eyes of his and look at me. Say my name. Pull me into his arms and tell me everything's going to be fine.

But as much as I will it, as much as I so desperately want it, nothing happens. There's no change.

And I feel perfectly, utterly, massively useless. If some big nasty wanted to try and drag the world into hell right about now, it'd be as good a time to try as any. I wouldn't be able to leave this stupid loft even if I'd wanted to.

Which I don't. Want to, I mean.

Giles seems to think it has something to do with the connection, my not wanting to go anywhere, not wanting to be separated from my vampire. It isn't though. It's so much more than that.

It's the fact that I feel responsible for him being so desperate to get the chip removed. It's the fact that I'd disgraced him, us, when we were out on patrol and that's the reason I'd gotten shot in the first place. It's the fact that I love him, and every day I sit and watch him not wake up makes my chest ache in ways I'd never imagined it could.

True, the connection might be part of it. But mostly I think it's love.

So I don't leave Giles's apartment once. Not to patrol, not to get something to eat, not even to go home and get a change of clothes. I don't think about anything, anyone, other than Spike. Don't feel the need to visit anyone, talk to anyone. Not even Mom and Dawn. They visit me, though.

They all visit me.

Willow and Tara, Mom and Dawn, even Xander and Anya. They all come and sit with me during the never ending stretch of days, talk to me, try and make me laugh. And it works, a little. Having them here helps.

Part of me always hopes that Spike will overhear us. Xander making some off handed joke that I know Spike would hate. Or me sharing stories with Dawn about him, when we first met. Or Willow and Tara telling me about how he'd requested their help with my Christmas gift. Or that he'll somehow recognize Mom's voice when she sits in the chair at the corner of the bedroom and reads bits and pieces of _Pride and Prejudice_ aloud.

Those are my favorite times. Yeah, it's nice when we're cracking jokes, or laughing over old stories, like when we'd teasingly recalled how Spike had convinced Dawn that Billy Idol stole his look and not the other way around…

But it's the readings that I love the most, and it's the readings that I always secretly hope will be the thing that finally works. Willow had said she'd read about it working for other people in comas, so there was a good chance it'd work for us, too.

And I just like listening to it. It isn't the story itself that I like so much as it is the way the words sound, the flow of the sentences, the grace of the dialogue. Recognizing certain phrasing or words that I know I've heard Spike use, and recognizing that they're from his life before.

It's actually kind of amazing, the way my family and friends come together. Granted, there's always a little niggle in the back of my mind that tells me Xander's only being nice now because Spike's not awake to hear it…

But as great as everyone's been, I know they're worried, too. About me just as much as they seem to be about Spike.

" _How are you doing, Buffy?" Tara asks me on the third day._

 _She and Willow had come by a couple hours ago and had stayed to test out a few different spells, see if anything might work to wake the comatose vampire. So far, nothing's worked, and I haven't been willing to let them try anything more...invasive than they already have._

 _Now, Willow is downstairs talking to Giles, and Tara had offered to help me with my daily attempt to feed Spike._

 _I offer her a thin smile from my perch on the mattress, running a cool washcloth over his forehead, turning from my task long enough to look at her._

" _Uh, I'm okay," I say honestly, shrugging, turning back to brush the cloth over the purpling shadows underneath Spike's eyes, down to his pale lips. "I mean, I'd feel better if I could get him to eat something, but—"_

" _Have_ you _eaten?" Tara interrupts me gently. I turn my eyes to hers, frowning. She sits down in the corner chair, eyeing me thoughtfully._

" _I…" I trail off, brow furrowed, finding that I don't know the honest answer to that. I know I've eaten something. Mom had brought cookies at some point and I'd definitely had a few of those. I pull the cloth away from Spike's face and set it on the nightstand, picking up the mug of blood and the straw in it's place. "I mean, I've…" At the knowing look on her face, I sigh, shoulders sagging. "I haven't been hungry."_

 _Tara nods but shifts her eyes away from mine, down toward Spike. "I know this hasn't been an easy few days for you," she says softly, nibbling on her lip. "A-and I wish we could have done...more."_

" _No," I say quickly, setting the mug down in my lap and shaking my head. "No, you guys have done plenty." I think about it for a second, turning to look down at Spike again, how much worse he looks now than he had before. The last time I'd seen him look this badly was over a year ago, when he'd first gotten the chip. I make a face, thinking out loud, "Unless you have like a...blood transfusion spell or something?"_

 _Tara gives me a soft, appreciative laugh and I smile too, just a little, when I look back toward her._

 _But her eyes are serious._

" _You can't take care of him if you don't take care of yourself," she says, and her voice is as stern as I think I've ever heard it. "Take a break, Buffy. Clean yourself up a-and eat something."_

 _I shake my head. "I can't—"_

 _But Tara's up on her feet now, moving toward me before I can finish the thought._

" _I'll sit with him. Maybe I can work a little magic," she says, indicating with a tilt of her head toward the mug in my hands._

Even after my talk with Tara, I scarcely make time to leave the vampire's side long enough to shower, to change my clothes. And when I _do_ leave I'll only allow certain of the others to stay with him by themselves. Tara I've found comforting, but am hesitant with Willow. Giles is fine, but Xander isn't. Mom and Dawn, of course, I trust…they just aren't here as often as the others seem to be.

I don't let myself cry, even though I want to. I don't know if that's because I don't want the others to see me upset, or if it just feels like that would be…admitting defeat or something.

I don't know.

There's nothing in the Slayer handbook about what to do when your vampire lover is in a coma because he'd panicked and undergone some shoddy surgery to have his behavior modification software removed in order to better protect you from a governmental demon hunting agency.

Giles had tried, on more than one occasion, to tell me that Spike's situation hadn't been my fault. That he'd been the one to demand they remove the chip, that what had happened to me, that the Initiative possibly being back, hadn't been the only reason. I'd told him that I knew that, but it had been a lie.

I've spent the better part of the last five days blaming myself.

Giles had also tried to explain to me the way that comas work. At least, the way they work in living patients. He'd told me a little bit about what I might expect when Spike does wake up.

But I'd overheard him telling Mom that he'd begun to think he might not wake up at all. We hadn't been able to feed him, and without the blood he'd needed so desperately to heal, Giles believed there'd be little chance of him coming to without it.

I'd chosen not to listen, not to take anything I'd overheard to heart, choosing instead to keep reminding myself that he isn't dust. And as long as he's not dust, he's fine.

He'll be fine.

 _He has to be._

It's close to midnight, now. Dead silent in the apartment, the little alarm clock on Giles's nightstand ticking down the minutes until we stretch on into day number six. Mom and Dawn had been by earlier, and the five of us had eaten dinner together. School is starting back up in a few days and and they'd asked me to go shopping with them.

I think they'd known even as they'd asked me what the answer would be.

So they had left after dinner, and Giles had made me a cup of tea that I think had been supposed to make me sleepy. It hadn't worked.

We'd talked briefly about what it is we're going to do about the Initiative, but I don't think either of our hearts had been in it. Then I'd said goodnight and headed up to the loft for another semi-sleepless night.

I'm almost asleep.

Listening to the soft ticking of the bedside clock, the cool pre-January wind whipping around outside, battering against the loft's window. I can feel sleep tugging on me, my eyelids drooping as I curl instinctively tighter into the vampire beside me. I let my lashes flutter closed, listening for the tell-tale chime of the stroke of twelve when it happens. I feel it.

Spike's hand twitches.

I'd made it a habit after the first night to sleep beside him in the bed, my head resting against his shoulder, left hand folded into his right, splayed across his stomach.

" _Just in case,"_ I'd told Giles when he'd given me a look. " _I want to be here when he wakes up."_

So I feel it immediately, jerking myself awake when his fingers suddenly tighten around mine.

I sit bolt upright in the bed, twisting around to look up into his face. His eyes are still closed, the planes of his face still quiet, serene.

But there's movement. His eyes, I can see them moving beneath his lids. Lashes fluttering slightly like he might be struggling to wake up.

I twist further around, careful to keep my hand still tucked firmly into his, and prop myself up on my elbow.

"Come on, sweetheart," I whisper, using my favorite of his pet names for me, the same way I've been doing all week. I reluctantly release his hand and reach mine up to brush a wayward platinum curl off his forehead. I stare down at him, threading it through his hair before letting it move down and around to trace over his cheek. "Open your eyes."

My own eyes are stinging, rapidly filling up with days and days worth of unshed tears as hope blooms bright in my chest and I look down at his perfect face. Sending prayer after silent prayer up to whoever might be listening that he'll hear me this time.

God, I've begged him countless times over the past few days. Just like this, in the middle of the night, leaning over him and whispering encouraging words against his skin.

No one's ever heard me before.

Until now.

I watch, sucking in a deep, ragged breath as his thick lashes flutter against the pale flesh of his cheeks one last time before opening up wide, blinking into the darkness of the loft. He doesn't see me at first, the soft blue of his irises focused instead up on the ceiling.

But I don't care.

The only thing that matters to me is that his eyes are open, and for the first time in days I can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest where mine is pressed against it.

"Spike," I breathe, and it comes out torn, strangled on the sob that I've been holding in since I'd lain down beside him that first night. I lean further into him, reaching my right hand up to his cheek, letting my left hand close back around the fingers still splayed over his stomach.

His eyes do turn toward me now, as soon as he hears my voice. Fathomless azure, gleaming at me in the stray moonlight filtering through the window. His hand instinctively closes more tightly over mine, and I can't help the fresh wave of sobs that bubble past my lips.

"Oh my God," I manage between gasps, half crying and half laughing. "You scared me, you big idiot." I bring his hand to my lips and press tiny, fluttering kisses all along his knuckles.

Spike blinks up at me, watching my movements warily. He looks confused. Dazed. Giles had warned about this part, that it might take him a few minutes to come back to himself, to remember everything that had happened.

At least, that was the case with most coma victims. Granted, most coma victims weren't long dead, over one hundred year old vampires, so…we'd sort of been flying blind in taking care of him this whole time.

"What…" he begins, and his voice is hoarse, scratchy. Probably a combination of the lack of talking and the lack of feeding over the last five or so days. He clears his throat and tries again. "What happened?"

"Shh," I soothe, putting two of my fingers to his lips to quiet him. "Don't...talk yet." I swivel around on the bed, listening to the springs squeak as I do, grabbing the long-cooled mug of blood off the nightstand and stirring it absently with the straw. I lean toward him, placing the straw within easy reach of his lips. His eyes struggle to focus on the straw, and he looks back up to me once he does, as if he needs my permission to take it. I nod encouragingly, angling it even closer to him. I breathe a long, audible sigh of relief when he takes it between his parched lips and begins hesitantly drinking.

My eyes sweep his face hungrily, taking in the animation of his jaw, the way his cheek bones move below the pale skin. He has deep bags under his eyes, and his lips are dry. Dimly I recognize that he'll need to eat something more than just this chilled blood, and soon.

But it can wait. It can wait five more minutes.

He drains the mug quickly, but I wait for the hollow sucking sounds of the straw meeting the empty ceramic before I pull it away and set it back on the nightstand, grabbing the wash cloth and using it to wipe the slight flecks of crimson from the corners of his lips. He gazes up at me with wide, wondrous eyes as I do, searching my face almost as hungrily as I'd been scanning his.

I lean in and impulsively press my lips to his, my free hand going to his cheek, forgetting for just a moment about the wound that still hasn't quite healed on the back of his head. He winces below me, but whatever pain I've just caused him doesn't prevent him from kissing me back. Instantly, instinctively. Just the slightest of pressures returning mine, his hand finding it's way to rest against the swell of my hip. And I'm lost in him, in every subtle movement, in every touch of mine he returns. It feels like years have passed since I've felt him _respond_ to me.

I hear him inhale sharply when I finally pull away. He blinks at me, flecks of gold swirling in the blue.

"You've been out for days," I tell him, and the tears are falling freely now. I'm no longer sobbing, so they flow silently down my cheeks in a steady stream that feels like it's at once relief and sorrow.

And he's still looking at me, but something seems different. I haven't seen his eyes this distant, so unfocused in…well, ever, maybe.

But at least he's _looking_ at me. At least those gorgeous, impossible eyes of his are open.

"Giles was starting to think you wouldn't wake up at all," I tell him, sniffling, pulling my right hand away from his face to run it below my eyes, wiping the salty liquid away.

And something that I've said has his dark brows knitting together, his eyes moving back and forth between the hand I've brought back up to my lips, the tears trekking down my cheeks and my own eyes.

"Giles?" he asks, his voice still not quite normal. And apart from the hoarseness, there's something else, too. A weird inflection. Like the name sounds a little foreign on his tongue. Like he should recognize it, or vaguely does, but can't place it.

Something in me freezes.

I frown against his hand, bringing it down, away from my mouth.

And I know that something's wrong. It hits me hard, this kind of absolute knowing. Immediate, instant, as only I can know Spike. I continue to stare into his eyes as I feel the flood of emotions I hadn't bothered to think about until now. Confusion, remnants of pain, anger, a hint of fear, distrust, confusion again.

And my stomach twists up into thousands of intricate knots before it drops as I see now what it is that's flashing in the azure of his eyes.

"Spike?" I say again, more slowly, tentatively this time. My left hand unconsciously squeezes his as I do.

The vampire stares up at me for a long moment. I watch the emotions flicker across his face, watch as he swallows hard, his Adam's Apple bobbing in this throat. His tongue darts out to wet his parched lips.

And then he shifts slightly, head tilting to the side on the pillow like he's trying to get a read on me.

And when he finally speaks again, his voice that same deep, rumbling timbre I've grown to know so well, it's his words that make my blood run cold.

"Who are you?"


	37. Chapter 36

Who are you?

For a very, very long moment, I can't speak. Can't move. I'm still leaning over Spike; left hand still held tight in his, my right hand pressed against his cheek. His lips just slightly swollen from the kiss I'd given him a moment ago.

And those words, that question. Who are you? It echoes through my head, spinning and twisting and repeating until I'm closing my eyes and shaking my head to better understand it.

He doesn't know who I am. Doesn't…can't recognize me.

Spike doesn't recognize me.

Permanent damage. That's what Giles had said. He hadn't had any way of knowing if him removing the chip had caused any permanent damage.

Like memory loss.

It's the slightly impatient tug on my left hand that has me starting, my eyes fluttering open again. Spike's moved slightly, shifted upwards on the pillow so that his back is pressed to the headboard.

And he's looking at me. Head tilted slightly to the side, the familiar blue of his irises burning into mine.

"Are you alright?" he asks me softly, his voice still not quite his.

And it's just too…weird. Too much to see him looking at me like this. The eyes that I recognize, the expression so thoughtful and so…intense. Earnest. But there's no love there. At least, not the kind I've grown so used to seeing. It wigs me out, raising the i=tiniest goose bumps all along my bare arms as I search his eyes.

Like I'm looking at him but I'm not looking at him at the same time.

My chest tightens.

"I…I, umm…" No. The answer is no. "You don't know me?"

"Sort of get the feelin' I don't know a lot a things."

"Do you remember anything? Anything at all?"

Spike thinks it over for a minute, opening his mouth once as though he's about to speak before quickly closing it again. He shakes his head, looking sheepish.

And I think I'm going to be sick.

"Blood," I say quickly, remembering what Giles had told Mom. That without blood, Spike wouldn't be able to heal properly.

So maybe that's it. Maybe once I get some blood in him his memories will start t return.

I turn back to look at him, taking in his wide eyes, raised brows.

"You need more blood," I explain, secretly hoping he isn't going to ask me to explain that to him right this second. "You haven't eaten in days."

He seems to consider this, too, eyes narrowing slightly. They never leave my face. I get the feeling from him, the swirling rush of confusion and frustration coming from him now, that he's trying to place me. Wracking his brain for any information, any memory, that might give him insight into who I am.

"Do you…want some blood?" I ask slowly, working hard to keep my voice even, being very watchful of the emotions flickering over his face.

I still haven't let go of his hand, and he hasn't let go of mine. To my relief, he seems to at least understand this much. Or doesn't seem completely shocked by it.

And then he nods, as if understanding and agreeing all at the same time. For the first time since those three awful words left his mouth a moment ago, I relax a little. There's the softest flutter of relief that flows through me, accompanied by what I'm feeling from him. Gratitude, I think.

And this is good. So something in him, something there in the back of his mind, must still know who he is.

What he is.

"Okay," I say, offering him a thin, strained smile and nodding encouragingly. "Okay. I'll go get more."

I swivel on the mattress, putting my bare feet flat on the wooden floor and reaching for the empty mug on the nightstand with my right hand. Getting to my feet, I'm stopped short, Spike's grip tightening just slightly on my hand as he tugs me back toward the mattress.

I land with a soft bounce, a soft squeak of the coils, and turn to look at him.

I stare at him, frowning slightly, looking back and forth between the stricken expression on his face and the hand that's gripping mine.

"Don't," he says quickly, azure eyes even wider now than they'd been a moment ago. His voice is low, quiet. "Don't…leave me."He swallows, and I feel a lump growing in my own throat when the pad of his thumb brushes over the back of my hand. "Please."

"I have to," I say softly, doing my best for soothing. "You need blood, and that's downstairs—"

"Please," he says again, a little louder this time.

I reach over, gently covering his hand with mine, reluctantly, gently unlocking his fingers. As much as I want to stay up here, as much as I want to stay touching him, I know he needs blood. It's the only thing that's going to heal him, bring his memories back.

And I need Giles. I need to know if this is…normal, or…

I squeeze my eyes shut tight against the though, refusing to let it grow. I push it down violently.

He's awake. He's awake, and he'll drink some more blood, and he'll be fine.

He'll be fine.

I open my eyes again to find him still staring at me in that thoughtful way. I sigh, the air leaving my lips on a shudder.

"I'll be right back," I tell him, dropping my voice low, too. I pull his hand away from mine, smiling again. "I promise."

Spike eyes me cautiously for a moment before he nods, relinquishing his grip on my hand and allowing me to slide away from him.

Freed now, I turn and stand, moving quickly for the staircase. The hand that grips the ceramic mug is shaking. I'm just about to reach the top step and descend when I'm stopped again, Spike's gentle whisper cutting through the space between us and hitting me somewhere right between my shoulder blades.

"Miss?"

I turn my head to look at him, nearly bowled over by the amount of genuine gratitude, what almost feels like the affection I'm used to blending in with the confusion I feel coming from him.

"Yeah?" I ask, voice tight, wondering what it means.

He offers me a small, almost shy smile, raising both eyebrows expectantly.

It takes me a lot longer than it should for me to figure out what he's asking, that he's indicating that he'd like me to tell him my name.

"Oh, right," I say lamely, a cold, sinking feeling returning to my gut as I struggle to keep eye contact with him. "Buffy," I say, clearing my throat against the tightness there. The total and complete insanity that is me introducing myself to Spike. Or…reintroducing myself to Spike. Either way. "My name is Buffy."

I watch from perch at the top of the stairs as his expression changes suddenly. Something flashes in his eyes.

"Buffy," he repeats hesitantly, like he's testing it out, letting the soft sound roll over his tongue. And it's like music to me. The sound of my name on his own lips brings a flicker to his gaze, the barest glimmer of what might be recognition. But it's gone again before I've had the time to register it, to fully get a grip on the emotion that had come with it.

But the flutter of hope is back as he relaxes back into the pillows and smiles at me.

I turn and thunder down the stairs, tossing the ceramic mug up onto the countertop and moving through the hallway until I reach the guest bedroom's door.

I don't bother knocking. Just twist the knob and fling it open, not caring that I'm using way too much strength as it flies back and slams into the wall.

My Watcher jerks awake, looking around the room frantically for the source of the noise. He blinks at me, eyes hazy as he takes in my appearance.

"Buffy?" he asks, reaching immediately for the nightstand and grabbing his glasses, pushing them hurriedly onto his face. "What's the matter?"

"He doesn't remember anything, Giles," I say quickly, moving forward, beginning to pace rapidly at the foot of the bed. "Nothing. It's like…it's like it's him but it isn't, you know? And I don't know what to do. Is this normal? For coma patients, I mean? I don't…I can't–"

I'm stopped by his hands on my shoulders, spinning me back around with more force than I would have expected and forcing my eyes to his.

"Slow down," he says sternly, searching my wild eyes with his. "Who doesn't remember anything?" His brow is deeply furrowed. "What…what's not normal?"

I frown at him. Had he not just been listening?

"Spike," I hiss, frustrated. God, who else would I be talking about? "Spike's awake, but he doesn't—"

"Spike's awake?" Giles interjects, his hands falling away from my shoulders. "How long has he been awake for?"

I frown deeper, not understanding why that matters. I shake my head trying to remember. It had just struck midnight when I'd felt his hand move, and it's…I turn toward Giles's alarm clock, squinting into the dark to read the time.

12:25am.

"Twenty minutes, maybe," I say, turning back to look at him. "But, Giles, something's wrong. He doesn't—"

"Have you given him any blood?" He asks, cutting me off again, turning on his heel and moving quickly out the bedroom door and down the hall. I scramble after him, every second bringing a fresh wave of panic along with it.

By the time I reach the kitchen, he's already removing a packet of blood from the fridge and tossing it into the microwave.

"He'll need blood, if he hasn't had any already," he's saying, half to me and half to himself, and I can't help but notice the palpable sound of relief in his voice as he reaches across the counter and grabs the mug I'd set down a moment ago. "And we'll have to run some tests, once he's stronger. Make sure everything's—"

"Giles!" It's my shout that cuts him off, now. Wild and panicked and much too loud in the small galley kitchen. I wince at the echo, knowing that Spike will have heard me. "Whatever you were about to say, I'm pretty sure I can tell you that everything isn't. Spike…" I lower my voice again, leaning in close to my Watcher. "He doesn't remember anything, Giles."

This has him stopping, blinking dumbly at me. "Nothing at all?" he asks after a long moment, eyes searching mine from behind his glasses.

I slump back against the sounder top and shake my head, nibbling down on my bottom lip.

"Nothing," I say quietly, turning my stinging eyes down to the ground as I suck a deep breath in and exhale slowly. "He doesn't even know me."

There's a long beat before Giles clears his throat and speaks again.

"Has he eaten anything yet?"

I keep my eyes down, swallowing against the lump that won't go away in the back of my throat. "Yeah," I say, "I had him drink the blood that was in there from earlier today," I incline my head toward the ceramic mug beside the microwave. "But he told me he wanted more."

There's another long pause as Giles thinks this new information over, deep frown lines forming along his brow, the corners of his lips.

"So he is speaking then?" He asks finally, and I force my eyes up to meet his. Despite still looking concerned, there's a little bit of hope there now, too.

Like maybe he'd thought speech would be an issue.

Thank God for small favors, I think numbly, nodding my head in response to the question. "Speaking, sure." I sigh loudly, the air shuddering past my lips. "Just not…remembering."

The next question he asks catches me off guard.

"Did he seem violent to you?"

I shift backward, blinking at him, wondering why that's the next place his Watchery mind had jumped to.

He doesn't remember anything, it doesn't mean he's suddenly going to go all serial killery.

Again.

"Not even the eensiest," I tell him flatly, leaving zero room for more discussion on the matter. "He's confused, and frustrated, but…" I trail off, looking down again and shaking my head. "Is this normal?"

Giles inclines his head to the side thoughtfully. "Well, amnesia is something I'd been concerned about." He looks away from me, his research face firmly in place as he continues on, almost to himself. "There have been cases of it associated with coma victims before. But those were mostly retro…or anterograde." He glances toward me, and at my raised eyebrows, he sighs, shifting slightly to lean back against the counter. "If what you've said is true, and Spike can't remember anything at all, then this is something else entirely."

"Great," I mutter, turning my eyes toward the microwave and watching the blood inside the bag heat up. I think of what had happened with Spike upstairs. That weird, flickery sort of recognition he'd gotten with my name.

I look back toward Giles. "But it's weird…Like, he doesn't recognize me, but he does." The microwave dings and I step forward to take it but Giles stops me, turning and pulling it out, ripping the bag open and dumping it into the awaiting mug.

"How do you mean?" he asks, turning toward me, the now steaming blood cupped in his hands.

"When he was looking at me earlier it was like he knew me," I explain. "Or at least he knows he should know me." I snap my fingers, pointing at the mug in his hands. "A-and the blood? Totally unwigged by the whole needing to drink it thing."

Giles considers what I've told him and nods, the crease in his brow smoothing out just a little with the new news. His reaction has me relaxing a little bit, too.

"Yes," he muses finally, stepping toward me. "I'd say that's a fairly good sign. Why don't you…" he passes the mug to me, waiting for me to grip it in both hands before letting go. "Take this up to him, and I'll see if I can get in contact with Tara and Willow. They might know a way to help."

I nod, turning to go, then pause and whirl back around. "And in the mean time?" I ask, sucking my bottom lip into my mouth and chewing on it. "How…I mean, are there things I shouldn't say? Questions I shouldn't answer?"

Giles is quick in his response, shaking his head. "I don't think so, Buffy. Maybe being honest with him about things will…trigger something." He reaches toward me and squeezes my shoulder reassuringly, offering me a small smile. "All it might take is one solid memory to bring back all the rest."

I nod thoughtfully, turning around again and padding through the quiet living room and back toward the stairs, sending another silent prayer to whoever heard me before that Giles is right.

I feel him before I see him, know his eyes are going to be on me when I turn on the landing and ascend the last few steps to the loft. A rush of unexpected warmth floods my system when I step toward the bed. It catches me off guard, winding its way through my stomach and spreading up toward my chest, causing my feet to falter.

I grip the mug tighter in both hands and stare at him, eyes wide. If possible, his are as wide as mine are.

I guess he hadn't expected that, either.

It has to be the connection. I hadn't even thought about that. Even if his memories of me are gone, for now, his body is still so highly attuned to mine. And there's the claim to consider, too. Even if his mind can't quite recognize me yet, his body knows me.

Distantly, I realize I haven't moved for a while. I'm still clutching the heated mug, my eyes glued to his, a low rumbling sensation starting to flood my gut.

Hunger. But not mine.

"Uh, here," I say, forcing my legs to move again, coming to rest my hip on the side of the mattress beside his. "Drink this."

I reach for his hand and press the heated ceramic into his palm, using the pressure of my own fingers to help him close his around it. I'm not sure which one of us it is that's shaking, him or me.

Maybe we both are.

When I'm sure he has it, I extract my hand and fold it down into my lap, watching him through my lowered lashes as he begins to drink. He finishes this in record time, too, and I'm already starting to see the changes on his face. His skin doesn't look quite so sallow, and the purple below his eyes is fading.

"More?" I ask softly when he hands the mug back to me, eyes raking over his face.

Spike leans back into the pillows again and nods his head. "If you don't mind."

When he speaks this time, he already sounds more like himself. His voice a little coarser, less…refined. I can practically hear the rest of the sentence in my head now. Normally, he would've ended it with a pet name. I find myself wishing for that, now. Luv, or pet. Even kitten. At this point, I don't care.

But I keep these thoughts to myself, nodding instead and hurrying back down to the kitchen for another packet of blood.

"He seems a little better already," I tell Giles as I pass him, settled down on the sofa with a pile of books spread across the table, a mug of what I'm guessing is tea in one hand and a chewed down pen in the other.

"The blood is helping then?" he asks, glancing at me as I move into the kitchen and open the fridge.

"Seems like," I say, tossing it flat into the microwave and hitting the minute button. Then I think about what I've just seen, and lean forward to open the fridge again.

These bags look different than the ones I'm used to seeing, the containers higher in quality than the ones full of pig blood I usually get from the butcher.

Maybe it's cow?

Still staring at them, I call out "Is it just pig's?"

A beat passes. No answer from Giles.

I frown, shutting the refrigerator door and leaning forward around the wall that separates the kitchen from the leaving room just as the microwave timer dings.

Momentarily distracted, I lean back in and grab it out, playing a short game of hot potato with myself as I rip it open and dump it down into the mug. I little of it spills in my haste, dribbling out and down the side of the mug, landing on the counter. Without any hesitation at all, unthinking, I scoop it up with the pad of my index finger and bring it to my lips.

My eyes go wide as I yank my hand away from my mouth, grabbing up the mug and moving back out into the living room.

"Human?" I ask, waiting for Giles to turn and look at me before I raise both eyebrows sky high. "You bought him human blood?"

Giles frowns at first, setting his pen down and eyeing me cautiously. "How do you know that?"

I scoff at him, as though it should be obvious. As thought it isn't weird at all. "I tasted it," I say simply, ignoring the way his eyes bulge when I do. "And that is beside the point. We're feeding him human blood now?"

The shock on my Watcher's face from a moment ago ebbs, replaced with a knowing sort of Watchery smugness that I think I've seen way too much of lately.

"It'll go quite a bit further in getting Spike healed properly," he explains simply, as though this is the most normal thing ever. He regards me curiously. "I thought you'd be pleased by that."

"I am," I say quickly, the snide tone of my voice belying the honest sincerity in my words. "I am so pleased by that, but I'm…color me confused, Giles."

He continues to watch me from his place on the sofa, eyes raking over my puzzled expression before he finally sighs. His résponse both surprises and warms me from the inside out.

"Seeing as how the current situation is mostly my doing," he says slowly, reaching up and removing his glasses. "I felt it only right that I provide him the best means for getting well again." Then, almost as an after thought as he places his glasses on his nose again, he adds "If it makes you feel any better, I donated some, too."

I move forward before he can say another word, leaning down and wrapping both arms around his shoulders and squeezing.

"Thank you," I say softly, being careful not to drip any of the crimson fluid down the back of his shirt. I feel his hand come up to pat my back and I pull away, smiling at him.

"Let's just not tell the others just yet? I'm not quite prepared for them to know how easily corruptible I am."

A smile tickles my lips and I nod, a silent promise, even though we all know a little more than we probably should about just how corruptible Giles might be.

"Any luck on the wicca front?" I ask instead, turning back toward the staircase.

He shakes his head, turning back toward his books. "No answer. I'll try back again at a more normal hour."

"You look better," I say softly, crossing the space between the stairs and the bed and sinking down into my spot again.

This time, Spike doesn't wait for me to hand him the mug. He reaches for it, not even bothering with the straw, simply tipping it back and draining it in what looks like three long gulps.

"Feeling better too, I'm guessing," I say, taking the empty mug from him and placing it on the nightstand. He gives me a very Spike-like look, lips curved in a knowing smirk as he nods. I feel a small smile tickling my lips in response.

"Still hungry?" I ask after a minute, laying the cloth back down and turning to face him again. "Or do you want to rest?"

He makes a face at me, one scarred eyebrow raised, and I feel the air catch in my throat. "You said I've been sleepin' for days, yeah?"

Already, after only three mugs of blood, he's starting to sound more like himself. The familiar speech patterns, the low raw silk rumble of his voice. It relaxes me a little, brings the tension I've been carrying in my neck and shoulders down. Makes me think that maybe Giles had been right—that with a little extra time, a little more blood, he'll be good as new again.

So I just nod in response to his question, not entirely sure what else to do.

"Then I think I'm all set with the resting bit," he says breezily, twisting over onto his side and propping himself up on one fist. He looks up at me almost expectantly, dark lashes fluttering against the faded bruises under his eyes. "Care to tell me who you are?"

My stomach freezes, hardens and sinks. And just like that, any measure of hope I'd been feeling is yanked away. I just told him. Less than thirty minutes ago, I stood at the top of those stairs and told him my name. And he's forgotten already?

I can't keep the look of disappointment off my face now as I gaze over at him, wondering if this is what our future will look like. Like...Groundhog Day, only worse. I don't have the comedic timing of Bill Murray to help me out here.

I glance down at his fist, where he's propping himself up. The fingers of my own hand are bunched on the comforter beside it. Spike's awake, he's here, and his body is only a matter of inches away from mine but he feels farther away now than when he'd been in the coma.

I sigh, turning my eyes back to his and say "My name's—"

"Buffy," Spike says instantly, cutting me off. His voice is neutral, but I can see the urge to smirk tickling the corners of his lips. I wonder if that's something he's remembering, or if it's just so ingrained in his body language that it happens without thinking. Either way, it freezes me to the spot. " _That_ , I do remember. Told me your name, but that doesn't tell me who you are, does it?"

My brow furrows, thinking about what he means by that. He remembers my name from my having told him before, which I'm guessing is definitely on the end of good things. At least I won't be needing a better sense of humor for all this.

But what he's asking...that he wants to know who I am, but he doesn't mean my name.

 _Oh._

My eyes widen with understanding, the line of my brow smoothing. "Who I am…" I point toward him demonstratively. "To _you_ , you mean?"

Spike nods.

 _Oh, boy_.

"I…" I begin, then trail off, frowning again. Is there a good way to explain this, or should I just...dive right in? "Okay. Well, I'm…" This should _not_ be this difficult. "I mean, we're…" What? Partners? Lovers? Boyfriend and Girlfriend? _Oh, and by the way, former mortal enemies_. God. This was hard enough the first time around when Spike _knew_ who I was. "I'm your…"

"Are we together?" Spike asks suddenly, obviously getting impatient with my stammering attempt to explain what he'd just managed to explain in a simple, easy sentence.

I exhale, nodding and letting my shoulder slump in relief. "Yeah."

Spike nods, and this time I do see the smirk quirking his lips.

"Figured as much," he says simply, the gleam in his eye suddenly giving me the impression that he'd known from the beginning and had only asked to see what reaction he might get. "What with the kissin' and all." He shifts up so that he's sitting upright against the headboard and tilts his head to the side, eyes scanning my face. "Didn't peg you as the type of bird who goes round kissin' strangers."

My cheeks heat up as I remember the way I'd impulsively kissed him after he'd woken up. It had been an immediate response, grateful to see him awake, and responsive. Granted, there hadn't been any way for me to know at the time that he didn't, you know…. _know_ who I was.

But he'd kissed me back anyway.

I laugh a little in spite of myself and nod, folding my hands into my lap. "Then you'd have me pegged right."

"How long?" he asks.

My brow furrows again as I repeat the question back to him. "How long?"

"How long have we been together?"

I blink at him, trying to think. Do I go from the night I'd had that first dream, or the night of our first kiss? The night behind The Bronze or when he'd held me in my kitchen or sat with me on my front porch. Or the claim. So many different options, so many memories I have from the past few months with him. Which is the right one?

"Not that long," I finally settle on a mid-range memory, the night we'd first found out about the connection. "A couple months maybe."

There's a strong surge of confusion, or maybe it's disbelief, from the vampire resting in front of me as he blinks, suddenly looking dazed again. "Really?"

It's my turn to cock my head to the side, eyeing him through my lashes thoughtfully. "You sound surprised."

 _And you feel surprised, too_.

"Well, _yeah_ ," he says, emphasizing the second word like it should be obvious, glancing away from me and down toward the foot of the bed. Spike pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is much quieter. "It felt like…"

My ears perk at the word, hearing him say it like this. And for some reason I know when he says it he doesn't mean it the way normal people do. Not the general "feeling" you get about someone, or something. I know he means he felt me. My emotions over him.

"Felt like what?" I press, making my own voice quiet like his.

He turns his eyes back toward me and I swear I see something...different there as he looks at me and whispers "Longer."

"I guess in some ways it has been," I explain after a moment, forcing myself to look away from him, my toe tapping a soft rhythm on the wood floor. "We met like…over four years ago, now."

Another wave of surprise rippling down my back has me turning to look at Spike again. Both eyebrows are raised skeptically, head tilted further to the side now than it had been.

"And it took us until a couple months ago to get things squared?" he asks, total disbelief coloring his voice as he stares at me. I chew down on the inside of my cheek and give him a short nod. His brows raise even higher and he tilts his head back, inviting an explanation.

I sigh, the only words I can think of to say leaving my lips on the exhale. "It's complicated."

Spike's answering chuckle is low and appreciative, his lips pursing. "Startin' to see that. Still…" And he reaches toward me. I freeze, waiting to see what he's going to do, feeling a short fluttering gasp escape when he presses his hand against my cheek, swipes the pad of his thumb below the tear stained skin below my eye.

It's the first time he's touched me first since he's woken up.

"All this for a couple months?" he asks softly, his thumb still making slow sweeps across my swollen skin. He shakes his head. "Seems like the type of reaction you save for someone—"

"You love?" I offer, finishing the sentence for him without thinking.

The hand on my face freezes.

"Somethin' like that," Spike murmurs. He pulls his hand back away from my flushed cheek as his stormy, curious eyes search mine. A beat passes. Then, softly, "Do you love me, Buffy?"

This answer, at least, comes immediately. I don't have to think about it at all before the words are out, floating in the silent air between us. "Very much."

If the answer surprises him, I don't feel it. It doesn't show. His eyes flash, and he shifts a little closer to me, his hand inching toward mine across the smooth fabric of Giles's comforter. Whether his body is just...drawn toward mine, or this is something else, I'm not sure.

But the air catches in my lungs when he asks me his next question.

"Do I love you?"

For the millionth time tonight, I don't know what to say. Don't know who I'm talking to. This vampire across from me that I love, that loves me, that's himself and not himself at the same time. That somehow recognizes or knows...something about who he is. What he is. But who doesn't recognize me.

This version of Spike I'm looking at, talking to. This isn't _my_ Spike. But he's not _not_ my Spike, either. He doesn't remember me, or anything, apparently, but he's still sort of...him. Acting and sounding and looking more like himself by the minute. It might be the blood, or it might be the time that's passing. Maybe this whole memory loss thing is just temporary and he'll be completely himself in another day or two?

Or maybe he'll never have his memories back, and he'll just be stuck in sort of this...pseudo Spike state for the rest of ever.

And if I think about it too much more I think my brain is going to explode.

So I take a deep breath and begin to answer him. "You do," I say, then pause, wrinkling my nose up. "Or, you _did_. I…" I trail off, sighing, rolling my eyes up to the ceiling before turning to look back at him. "I'm not really sure how it works now, with the whole Anna Anderson vibe you have going on."

Spike chuckles appreciatively, and the sound is deep and rumbling. It makes me feel warm all over.

"I can feel it, you know," he says quietly, leaning still closer to me. He looks down at my hand, inching his hand toward mine, stopping just before his skin touches mine. "Might not…don't recognize you. Not yet. But I know I…" He lifts his hand and places it over mine, not quite touching, but more hovering above. He sighs and looks toward me, and his eyes are torn. Frustration and confusion and even a touch of anger flowing toward me, searing me with his gaze. "I think I know I _should_ love you. Does that make sense?"

My eyes start to burn, filling with tears that I refuse to let fall. Because the one thing I'm looking for, the one thing I'm dying to see reflected in the raging midnight blue now isn't there.

It's not what I want to hear. Not even close. But...if this memoryless version of him at least knows, or the connection is telling him to know that he should love me… Well, I guess that's better than nothing.

I sniff, blinking rapidly to clear my blurred vision. "Not really," I say, forcing what I feel like is a very falsely sweet smile onto my face. "But we were never big with the sense making to begin with."

This brings another ripple of laughter to the vampire's lips, but it stops almost as quickly as it begins, and his expression grows serious. Like he's thinking very hard about something. Maybe what it is I've just told him. Maybe what question he wants to ask next. I'm actually a little surprised he hasn't come out and asked me why it is he needs to drink blood, but at the same time I'm glad he hasn't. I keep thinking that means that somewhere, in the back of his mind, he still knows who he is.

"So," he says thoughtfully, dropping his eyes down away from me. "What happened to me?"

There's a loaded question if I've ever heard one.

I make a face at him, leaning back onto my right hand, leaving my left hand below his and tilting my head to the side. "Which part are you talking about?"

Spike looks a little caught off guard, shifting back away from me, too. His brow furrows like he's concentrating, and then he shrugs.

"Dunno, I guess." His head tilts to mimic mine. "Any of it. All of it. Who I am?" He glances around the room. "How did I get here?" And then he stops, his eyes landing on me again. Looking a lot like he'd love to be able to read my mind about now. "Why don't I remember you?"

"Whoa there, buddy," I say breezily, dragging my legs up off the floor and tucking them beneath me. I sigh and look away from him. "That's…a really long story."

Quite possibly the understatement of the century.

But Spike seems unfazed, undaunted by the gravity in my voice as he shifts up and leans toward me. "Do we have time?" he asks, voice hopeful. His hand reaches for mine, covering it where I've placed it on top of my lap.

And I'm powerless, totally and completely, to deny him anything he wants when he looks at me like that. It isn't love I'm seeing, but it's something else that's soft and warm. Affection. Trust, maybe.

And even though I'd give just about anything to see love there instead, this will do for now. It'll have to.

"Where do you want to start?" I ask, watching as he drags the pad of his thumb over the cluster of blue veins below my wrist repeatedly. Just the slightest touch, the softest pressure, has sparks flying across my skin and goosebumps raising along my arm.

"How about the beginning?" Spike asks softly.

"I only know the beginning from my end," I tell him quickly, mesmerized by the movement of his thumb against my sensitive skin. "My…version of things." I grimace thinking about how the story might sound to someone who's basically never heard it before. "And you might not like everything you hear."

The tiniest bit of pressure against the veins, like he might be feeling for the thrum of my pulse against my wrist as he murmurs "That's alright." His grip shifts up, ghosting lightly over my forearm and raising fresh goose bumps.

Each touch feels tentative, exploratory. Like he's trying to relearn me, or something. It's kind of a heady feeling.

I don't preface the story. Don't take the time to lay the background for him, figuring it might almost be easier to explain as we go. "The first time I ever saw you was in a back alley behind a bar, and you were threatening to kill me."

His touch on my arm pauses, tightening slightly. My eyes shoot to his, and he has both brows raised. "I was what now?"

My skin feels hot beneath his cool hand, stinging and tingling where his fingers press against it. I swallow, searching his eyes with mine.

"I told you you wouldn't like everything I had to say," I remind him quietly, shifting slightly forward to offer him more of my arm to work with.

His lips twitch, and for a moment I think he's about to give me that smirk of his that I've missed so much.

"That you did," he agrees instead, and his voice is just the tiniest bit husky. His hand resumes it's exploring, gliding up over my bicep to curve around my shoulder. "Carry on, then."

The sun is just starting to come up by the time I finish the story. Granted, I think it all would have gone a lot fasted if Spiked hadn't interrupted me every other minute to ask a fresh round of questions. Not that I'd minded, either way. If the circumstances had been different, it almost could have been fun, getting to tell him my side of the story. Show him the way I'd seen him through my eyes.

And the questions he'd asked had been good ones, usually accompanied by a swell of emotion from him. Curiosity, frustration, anger, affection. Some of the questions are ones I'd had answers to.

" _I wanted you dead."_

" _Yeah, because I'm the Slayer."_

" _And I'm a vampire."_

" _Right."_

" _So…how did we get here?"_

" _Told you it was a long story."_

But a lot of the questions he comes up, with I hadn't the slightest idea how to go about answering.

" _And I just left you there? To fight him by yourself?"_

" _I think you had other things on your mind at the time."_

" _Like this…Drusilla?"_

" _Yep."_

 _A beat._

" _Did I love her, too?"_

Others had been more a question of philosophy than anything else.

" _So, I'm evil then?"_

" _Not anymore."_

" _Oh, I see. Gone soft for a girl, have I?"_

" _Well you were always more evil lite than really…evil."_

And sometime, throughout the course of the night, I'd ended up in his arms. I'm not sure how. Not sure if it had been him or I that had instigated it, which of us had shifted just slightly, just enough for me to stretch out beside him. Which of us had pushed or pulled me into his side, rested my head on the cool skin of his bicep so we could see each other's eyes as we talked.

His arms had come around me when I'd started telling him about the connection. Dracula, the ancient theory, the fact that I'd drank from the elder vampire's blood. And I'd told him then about the claim. Had pressed the heel of my hand into my mark, and shown him his in return. Tried my best to explain it all, without, you know…totally wigging him out. That the reason his body had seemed to instantly know me, respond to me, even if his brain had not has to do with the fact that we're connected on a basic, fundamental level. That the two of us are…mated, for whatever much that means to him.

And it had meant something. I'd felt it, both in the subtle shift of his body language and the feelings flowing between us.

His arms had encircled my waist and tugged me closer to him then, and they'd felt strong around me. Solid. Possessive, even.

But not loving.

Not quite.

By the time I'd gotten around to explaining about the Initiative and the chip, the emergency removal surgery, and thus the memorylessness that is him right now…the slowing of his chest's movements let me know that despite his brain being all done with the resting, his body had had other plans.

And it's only once I feel his body's rhythms slip into sleep that I let the tears come. And these are strange tears. I'm not even sure myself why I'm crying them, whether it's relief or sorrow, joy or guilt. Everything in me just feels…torn. Hollow. So incredibly grateful to have Spike awake, and to have him here with his arms around me. And on the other hand, in the same exact breath, the helplessness that comes with knowing I have him but I don't. Not really.

Not yet.

It has to be sometime late in the afternoon when I wake up again. I've shifted positions, turned around in Spike's arms so that I'm facing away from him, my head toward the window. The sun is already starting to sink lower in the sky, and the muscles in my shoulders are stiff from where they've been pressed down into the mattress.

It takes me a minute to realize that there's movement behind me. Just the slightest bit, the pressure of a chest moving in and out, but enough to remind me over everything that's happened over the last twelve hours or so.

And there are voices downstairs. Lots of them.

Blinking, I start to move forward, sliding my feet down to the floor and preparing to stand up. The arm wrapped tight around my waist stops me.

"There are people here," comes the low whisper in my ear, cool breath stirring my hair. "Five or six, at least."

The anxiety peeling off him is palpable. I can't hear it in his voice, but I don't need to. The same way he'd gone slightly panicky last night when he'd thought I was leaving him to get blood, that's the way he feels behind me now.

The gang must be here. Giles must have called them all when he'd gotten ahold of Willow and Tara.

"I know," I soothe, reaching up and running my hand along his forearm. "It's just our friends."

He relaxes just slightly beneath my touch, but the knots twisting up my stomach don't ease any.

"Why are they here?" He asks me as I attempt to turn in his arms, trying to see his eyes.

I stop short when I catch sight of his face, a small gasp coming through my lips on an exhale. I'm shocked by how much better he looks today. His lips are smooth again, slightly pinkish. His skin is back to it's normal alabaster white. The purpling below his eyes is all but entirely gone.

I say a silent thank you again to Giles for knowing that human blood would do more to heal him than animal.

Although I hope he doesn't get used to it, cause there's no way I'm letting someone stick me with a needle every time he needs another packet of blood.

I offer him a small smile, reaching a hand up and brushing his hair off his forehead. "Giles probably told them you were awake and they just want to see you."

Spike's eyes are focused on me, slightly narrowed. "These the people from the story last night, then?"

I frown. The way he says it makes me feel funny, like it's just a story. Whatever frustration I've just felt has the expression on Spike's face softening, his eyes bright.

"I didn't mean to upset you," he says, reading whatever emotion it is he's just felt from me as anger, probably.

"You didn't, " I assure him, though I'm not so sure that's true. I sigh, pulling my hand back and pushing myself up into a sitting position. "If you're not ready to see them, Spike, that's fine," I assure him softly, definitely not wanting to force him into a confrontation he isn't ready for. "But I need to go down there and get more blood for you anyway."

"No," he says quickly, hurrying to sit up, too, shifting forward until his feet are flat on the ground. "I don't want you goin' down there without me."

I frown at him, tilting my head to the side. Putting my hand down and pushing myself up to my feet, I turn to look down at him. "I'll be right back up—"

"No," he says again, his voice harder this time. I take a step back, blinking at him. He shakes his head as though he doesn't quite understand where this is coming from, either. "I don't want you…I don't know those people."

I'm still not getting it.

"You do know them," I remind him, stepping closer to the mattress until my legs brush his knees. "You just don't remember them."

When he's silent for a long minute, his eyes focused somewhere down on the ground, I find myself reaching forward and placing a hand beneath his chin, turning his eyes up to mine.

"You don't remember me, either," I say quietly.

This has the vampire's eyes flashing, his hand flying up to grab mine and twisting it around until my fingers are locked with his. "It's different."

He's right, it really is different. At least a part of him knows me, can feel me. If he goes downstairs with me now he'll be confronted full force with a room full of people who know him, some of whom don't particularly like him, and all without any of the added benefit of knowing his full history with any of them.

So, different. Yeah.

"Do you want to go down with me?" I ask, listening to the dull murmur of voices in the living room below us. They blur together slightly so I can't tell exactly who's speaking, but it wouldn't be hard to guess. "We'll heat you up some blood and you can even take a shower, if you want to."

He seems to think it over for a minute, looking down, twisting one hand into the blue cotton t-shirt while still gripping mine in the other. Then he nods, hesitantly at first, then firmer as I feel his resolve hardening.

"Wouldn't mind cleanin' up a bit," he says, dropping the cotton fabric out of his hand and bracing it on the mattress for leverage as he prepares to get to his feet.

But he's been off his feet for six days now, and I know before I see it start to happen that he won't be able to get up, get moving, without my help. Firming up my grip on his left hand, I shoot my free hand out to grab his right, stepping back and planting my feet to help tug him to a standing position. He stumbles a little, his legs unsteady, but I catch him around the waist and help to hold him up right until he can find his balance.

"Thank you," he says tightly, and when I pull away to look up into his face, his eyes are squeezed shut.

"Spike?" I question, loosening my arms from his waist when I'm sure he won't fall.

His only response is to shake his head, lips pursed, jaw ticking with what feels like an attempt to reign in whatever emotion he's feeling.

"You okay?" I ask after a minute, my voice quiet. His eyes flutter open and find me instantly, pinning me with a look I haven't seen since he'd woken up last night. It's intense, and hard, his eyes gleaming slightly in the dying sunlight.

"Fine," he says, "just…yeah, fine."

But he's not. He's frustrated, almost angry at…something. I'm not sure what. I could push it, but I won't not now. Not when he needs to eat something, and with everyone waiting downstairs. So I move toward him again, taking his hand and looping his arm around my shoulders, hooking my free arm around his waist. It's this way, awkwardly, much too slowly, that we manage to make our way down the steps without either of us falling.

We come to a halted stop at the foot of the stairs and turn our eyes out, into the awaiting sea of faces in front of us. And suddenly, as if someone's just thrown a switch, everyone stops talking at once. The room goes silent.

"Spike!" It's Dawn, breaking away from the group and running toward us, arms outstretched. I don't have time to warn her, to caution her about Spike's rising anxiety before she's closing her arms around his waist and squeezing.

Beside me, the vampire freezes, his arm tightening where it rests around my shoulders.

The flood of panic rising in my chest hits me hard.

"Dawnie," I say quickly, urgently but as kindly as I can, reaching my free hand out to her arm and pulling it away from Spike's waist. She responds instantly, releasing my vampire and stepping back, blinking at me. I smile at her, but it feels tight. "No hugs okay? Not yet." I glance at Spike, who's muscles are strained so tightly I wonder if he might pull something. "He's not…strong enough yet."

My eyes scan the room, looking for Giles. He's standing near the counter top that separates the kitchen and the main living room, leaning against it. Willow and Tara stand beside him. Xander and Anya are sitting on the sofa, and Mom's standing directly behind them.

"Giles," I begin softly, eyes scanning the room, the faces of my friends before landing back on him. "Did you—"

"Yes," he answers me quickly, his voice as quiet as mine as he nods. "I've informed everyone about the situation."

Good.

Hopefully that means Dawn won't be too hurt by either mine or Spike's reaction to her. And that also means I can take the time to sort of…reintroduce him to everyone now.

"Okay," I say, going for casual but not quite getting there. "Spike, this is Dawn. My little sister."

I watch as he looks down at her, acknowledging her with a nod of his head and a small, almost apologetic smile.

"And that's Xander, and his girlfriend Anya," I say, pointing toward the sofa, carefully choosing my words so I make it painfully clear who is who in relation to what little I'd told him the night before. "And behind them is Joyce, my mom. Tara, Willow, and you know Giles."

My Watcher had come upstairs to check on us about halfway through the night, bearing gifts of coffee and some kind of non-sweet cookies for me to dip in it. And that had been a beyond weird interaction, watching the two of them getting reacquainted. Seeing the guilt in Giles's gaze as he'd sort of haltingly apologized for our current predicament and explained he was looking in to fixing it.

"Uh, yeah," Spike's saying now, the fingers of his left hand curling more firmly into my shoulder, tugging me in almost imperceptibly closer to him. "Nice to see you all," he says softly, and his eyes meet mine. If his expression hadn't been so lost, I might have missed the surge of desperation swelling from him. "Again."

"Wow," Xander mutters, his eyes on me. "He really has lost it, hasn't he?"

I glare at him, narrowing my eyes.

"Xander," Mom scolds harshly, her voice quiet, too. Then she turns back toward us. "It's so good to see you up and about, Spike."

"I mean, yeah," Xander grumbles, reaching his hand up at the spot Mom's just smacked. "That too."

There's a rumble from Spike's chest, a very low growling sound, and I look up at him. He leans a little closer to me, his lips tickling my ear.

"I don't like him very much, do I?" he asks, and his voice is sure. Less like he's asking and more like he already knows.

My lips quirk up and I shake my head, turning mine toward his. "No, you really don't."

His eyes burn into mine for a moment, and I swear I see it again. That same flash of almost recognition I'd seen the night before, when he'd said my name. But just like last night, it's gone before I can really get a grip on it.

"You look a lot better today," Tara offers lightly, no doubt trying to steer the conversation back to a more pleasant territory.

Spike nods, his lips forming a line again. "'S the blood, I'd wager. Feelin' a little more myself by the mug full."

"Speaking of which," I say quickly, taking the segue way he's offered me, whether he knows it or not. "I was just about to heat up some more."

I lift Spike's hand from my shoulder and twine my fingers with his, pressing the palm of my hand more firmly into his to pull him along behind me. Mom and Willow part for us once we reach the entryway to the kitchen, Mom smiling warmly at Spike as he passes her.

The room grows eerily quiet again as I heat up the new bag of blood, grabbing for the mug Dawn had given Spike for Christmas so I can fill it. She must have brought it over with her today, it hadn't been here last night.

I wish someone would talk. Say something. Say anything, about anything. I don't care. The silence is making Spike's nerves peak, the knots in my stomach twist harder.

As soon as the microwave beeps I grab the bag and tear it open with my teeth, not stopping to care that I'll end up getting some of it in my mouth as I do, dumping it into the mug and handing it to the bleached vampire hovering beside me.

"Did you want to clean up?" I ask him quietly, highly aware that the people on the other side of the partition are listening to everything we're saying.

The look of warmth and gratitude that overwhelm's Spike's features is all the answer I need, but the flood of cool relief that flows through my stomach lets me know how right I am.

He wants out of here, away from all these people. And soon.

I just nod without having to say anything else at all, placing my hand on his arm and guiding him back out of the kitchen and into the hallway.

"I'm just gonna show him where the bathroom is," I explain quickly, casting a cursory glance out toward my family and friends. "I'll be right back."

But I find that even as I say the words I'm not sure how true they are. Whether it's my anxiety or Spike's I'm feeling, I'm not sure. The crowd had even felt overwhelming to me, and I remember them all.

His shoulders are tense as I guide him into the bathroom, the hand that grips the black and red mug shaking just slightly. I frown, looking over him as I push the door shut behind me. I should have waited another day before putting him through that. Giving him another day to rest, to heal.

"I'm sorry," I say softly, moving passed him and toward the shower, yanking the curtain into place. "I don't think I realized how overwhelming that would be."

"For you or for me?" he asks me, his voice low but surprisingly steady.

I whip my head back over my shoulder to look at him, frowning. "What?" I ask, standing up straight again and turning toward him.

He shrugs. "Felt it," he says simply. "Felt you. You were just as nervous back there as I was."

Oh.

I guess I hadn't realized how tense I'd been going into it. Worried how he'd feel, worried what the others might say. Do.

I don't know what the right answer is exactly, so I settle for something in between. "Both, I guess."

Spike nods, eyes riveted to me as I move to the other end of the tub and lean forward, reaching behind the curtain to turn the faucet on. I reach my hand under the running water, fiddling with the taps unthinkingly.

"How hot do you want it?" I ask, wincing when I twist the H knob up too high.

"Was hopin' you could tell me," comes the steady response from behind me, and the slight touch of innuendo in the rumbling timbre of his voice is just so very Spike that it has me pausing, sends a sharp shiver skittering down my spine.

I turn to glance at him, and he's set the mug of blood down on the edge of the sink, fisting both hands in the hem of his shirt preparing to yank it off. His eyes are down, gaze ducked, so I can't tell if he's said it on purpose or not.

I decide to error on the side of caution and go with not. "I don't know how warm you like your showers," I say simply, turning away from him again and back to the taps. "You usually go after me so there's always plenty of hot water for mine."

I hear the sound of cotton hitting the tile floor and twist the C knob down, still searching for the perfect middle temperature.

"You tellin' me we've never showered together?"

This has me pausing again, a surge of heat flooding my cheeks at the implication in the question. Sex. It's the topic of several questions he'd brought up last night that I hadn't known exactly how to answer, so I'd mostly avoided them, finding ways to change to subject.

I stand up and turn toward him, catching his eyes and raising an eyebrow knowingly.

"What?" he asks me, and his voice is all innocence even though the glint in his eyes is anything but. "Just a question."

There'd been a couple moments like this last night. Moments when he'd been so himself, so entirely Spike that I'd caught myself wondering if the whole thing could be an elaborate joke. Logically, I know that's not the case. That it can't be.

But when he looks at me the way he is now, it's hard not to wonder.

"Yeah," I agree, moving toward the door. "One of the loaded variety." I make it to the door and put my hand on the knob, preparing to twist it and leave the rapidly steaming bathroom before something that happens that really, really shouldn't.

"Leavin' so soon?" Spike asks, giving me pause. I inhale and turn to look at him again, working hard to keep my eyes up and on his face rather than on the pale skin of his chest, the muscles beneath it.

"Yes," I say, drawing the word out. "You're cleaning up, remember?"

Spike sucks his cheeks in, placing his hands behind him on the either side of the sink and leaning back against it.

Oh, no. No. I know that look.

"And what if I need help?" All that false innocence is melted out of his voice now, leaving it low and gravelly. "Wouldn't leave your patient to tend to themselves, would you?"

"Spike," I warn, but secretly I'm thrilled. This is the most himself he's been since waking up last night, and I can't help the natural reaction I'm having toward him now. My blood is heating in my veins, fingers itching to reach for him. Every cell in my body responding to his on the most basic level.

"Why, miss Buffy," he says silkily, eyeing me through his lashes, tilting his head to the side. "Are you blushing?"

I am. God, I have no idea why, after everything we've been through. Everything we've done.

But I am.

"No," I lie.

Spike smirks, seeing right through me, feeling the heat as much as I am.

"You are," he says, smirking wickedly and releasing the sink, stepping toward me. If his legs are unsteady now, he doesn't show it. And then he stops advancing suddenly, his eyes widening. "Oh," he breathes. "Have we…have we not…"

My cheeks flush again, my back pressed flat into the wood of the door. "No," I say quickly, a little too loud for the cramped space. His eyes widen again, and I realize what I've just said. "No, I mean, yes. Yeah." I wince, rolling my eyes up to the ceiling. "We…have."

"But you don't want to now," Spike ventures, and I whip my head down, eyes locked with his. He's approaching me again, the predatory grace that makes him so incredibly dangerous on full display now.

I swallow hard, backing up further into the door as he comes to a stop just in front of me, looking down at me with hungry, burning eyes.

"That's not…" I trail off, the words sticking in my throat as he reaches for me. One hand pressing into my hip and the other twisting itself up in a lock of my hair. "I didn't say that."

But I should have.

I should say no. Should tell him I don't want to. Should whirl around and leave this damn steamy bathroom right now.

But I can't. I can't, and what's worse, he knows I can't. Can feel me as surely as I can feel him, even if he still doesn't know what it means.

And it's hard, so hard, to remember why it is I should be saying no when he's acting like this. So arrogant and smooth, silky and seductive. God, it has Spike written all over it.

No. Flashing in bright, neon green all over it.

"So…you do want to, then." The hand in my hair untangles itself, sliding the pads of his fingers along my exposed collar bone. His eyes are down, glued to his hand's motions. "That what I'm hearin'?"

And I do want to. It's more than a want, even. It's need. I need him, need to touch him and taste him. It's more than just wanting, it's craving.

He'd told me this once, when I'd asked him one night to tell me what it's like to crave blood. I'd asked if it was the same as when I find myself craving pizza, and he'd chuckled and kissed me and said no, not at all.

"I crave blood like I crave you," he'd said, nuzzling his nose along my collar bone. "It's not like food. You might want somethin' specific, but if you're hungry enough, you'll settle for just about anythin', yeah? When I want blood…when I want you…there's no substitute. No settlin'. I need this." And I'd gasped when he'd slid two fingers inside of me, his thumb settling into slow, lazy circles over my —, his lips finding my ear. "And only this."

"Spike." My voice is low, lazy sounding when I say his name, as much a warning as I can muster now. I lift my hands to his chest with the intent to push him away from me, but that thought vanishes as soon as my palms come in contact with the smooth skin there. I let him press further into me instead, my back bumping lightly into the door.

"Can feel it, yeah? Know that I'm meant for you." His hand finishes trailing over my collar bone and shifts down, around my rib cage, fingers anchoring themselves below my shoulder blade and pulling me harder into him. My hands slide to his shoulders, nails digging in of their own free will and eliciting a heady gasp from the vampire.

"Feel it when you touch me," he murmurs, the hand on my hip wrapping full around my waist and tugging my pelvis against his. I gasp this time, tipping my head back as he leans closer to me. "Felt it last night. 'S why I kissed you back, even without…recognizing you." He ghosts his lips over mine, feather light, but doesn't kiss me. My head is spun out, fogged over with the feel of his body against mine this way.

"Please," I hear myself whisper, and I don't know what I'm asking for. Whether for him to take me or let me go, I'm not sure.

Maybe both.

"But I do know, Buffy." My name on his lips has my inner muscles clenching, a soft involuntary murmur passing through my lips. "Know 'm yours. Feel it in the way my body responds to you."

And through the haze of desire, I catch myself doing it again. Hearing the way the sentence should end in my mind, the words that are missing. The seductive purr of the pet names and the goofy British swear words I pretend to hate but actually like because they're him. They're Spike.

And the absence of them now is enough to pull me out of the lust induced fog, to remind myself why this isn't a good idea. Not now. This is the last thing he needs. The last thing either of us needs.

"I can't," I whisper desperately, hating the words as they leave my mouth and enter into the steaming sanctuary of the bathroom. Wanting so badly to melt against him, to cover my mouth with his and pull him into me.

"Why not?" he asks huskily, his lips still grazing mine, both hands now wrapped around my waist, pulling me flush against him.

Why not? Oh, God, where do I start?

 _The fact that a day ago you were comatose and I didn't know if you'd ever wake up again?_

 _The fact that you're still weak enough to need my help down the stairs?_

 _The fact that my entire family, for all intents and purposes, are waiting outside for me?_

There are so many, too many, reasons why this right here is such a bad idea. The Mount Kilamanjaro of bad. And I could give him all of them. List them out rationally, ticking them off one by one.

I don't.

Instead, I grasp on to the one I think will get through to him. The one that's echoing the loudest in my head. The one that hits me hard, square in the chest when I pull away enough to look up into his eyes and all I see there is desire. White hot, raging lust, swallowing the indigo of his irises in black.

And that's all.

And I know. I know somewhere in the back of mind that if I give in to him now, if I give into my own need for him when he's not in a place to give it all back that it'll hurt. It'll hurt me.

So I shake my head and inhale deeply, every inch of my body screaming in protest knowing what I'm about to do. I let my hands trail slowly down his arms as I step back.

"Because I love you," I say softly, my hands gliding over his forearms and grabbing his wrists, pulling them away from me and breaking the hold he has on my waist. I look up at him, willing him to see what I'm thinking. "And right now you don't remember that you love me."

And I watch him just long enough to see understanding dawn on him, something that might be pain flickering across his face, flashing in his lust darkened eyes before I turn and open the bathroom door, disappearing into the hallway.


	38. Chapter 37

I stand on the other side of the bathroom door for a long second, holding onto the doorknob in my right hand, back almost pressed against the wood. I can feel Spike on the other side. More confusion, more frustration, the eensiest hint of the hurt I know I'd seen flash in his eyes before I'd run out the door.

It's the hurt that nearly makes me do it. Nearly makes me whirl around and charge back into the steam filled room, take his face in between my hands and cover his lips with mine. The want is still there, too. That sort of unyielding need for the vampire that I _know_ is standing right behind me, just on the other side of the door, that's pulling my body one way while my brain is spinning and yanking me in another. I want so much, _so_ much, to say to hell with it and throw myself back into his arms, feel the muscles beneath his skin, pretend for just a little while that everything's fine. That he's the same vampire he'd been six days ago, just for an hour or so, if I could somehow manage to not notice his eyes. The look in his eyes.

Or the look that's _not_ in his eyes, I guess. I don't know which it is. I close my eyes, exhaling and letting my head bump lightly back into the door.

 _Everything is so messed up_.

Being away from Spike, even just this teeny tiny distance is enough, though. I can't give in to what I'm feeling now, it isn't the time. Not with him being all amnesia boy, and not with all those people I'd left out in Giles's living room.

Speaking of which...

There are low voices coming from around the corner, down the hall. The voices of my family and friends. Giles, then Willow. A low murmur from Mom. Someone else I can't quite place but that I'm thinking is probably Tara. They're all too low for me to make out what it is they're saying but it's not like I _need_ to hear to know.

Sucking in a deep breath, closing my eyes for another long moment, I exhale through pursed lips and push away from the bathroom door. Rounding the corner and moving back toward the living room, toward the voices, I try to ignore the fresh waves of anxiety weaving through my stomach. Push back the soft swell of hurt. I'm pretty sure it isn't mine.

"Sorry," I say flatly, stepping out of narrow walkway and past the kitchen, looking back and forth between everyone's eyes, not wanting to focus in on any in particular. "Had to...fix the shower."

I wrinkle my nose a little, hearing how lame the excuse sounds to my own ears and hoping no one decides to say anything about it.

"Spike seems to be doing...better, don't you think?" Giles asks me, mercifully blowing past my halted shower comment, stuffing one hand in his pants pocket and resting the other against the countertop to his left.

I can feel everyone's eyes on me even though I have mine focused on my Watcher, waiting for whatever answer I'm going to give. Of all the eyes, of all the hopeful expressions I can feel, it's my sister's that stands out the most to me. It's my sister's that has me forcing a strained smile onto my face and nodding. That way strong, urgent need I feel to protect her, the same I haven't really felt since Mom had been released from the hospital, surging up again in my chest.

"Uh, yeah," I say, nodding one more time for extra good measure. "I think so." A beat. "The blood is helping a lot."

Giles nods and returns my strained smile with one of his own, reading something in my expression that I'm really hoping no one else does. I'm going to have to ask pretty much everyone to leave before Spike gets out of the shower and the better I am at pretending everything's all hunky with a super side of dory, the easier it will be to do that.

"Good," Giles says simply, taking his hand off the countertop and shoving it in his pocket so they both are buried.

The room goes quiet. There's the awkward sound of a throat clearing, that I'm pretty sure might be Xander, but not much else. Like no one knows what to say, or what to do. It is kind of wig worthy, I'll admit. Seeing the entire Scooby gang here, and Mom, and Dawn, and knowing that they're here for him. Spike. Well, technically, for me...but by extension for Spike, and it's all just a little _much_. As much as I appreciate it, and I do appreciate it, Spike had been right when he'd said he'd felt my anxiety as much as his. It's true that it had been overwhelming for me to see the vampire be the focus of so much attention from everyone. And _positive_ attention, at that.

And thinking of it that way makes my chest ache all over again, because Spike, _my_ Spike, would have gotten like a year's worth of kicks out of knowing how worried everyone had been over him. The version of him that's in the shower, the _I-will-not-remember-you_ version of him that's still tangling my stomach up in knots, can't see it.

"He seemed okay to me," Dawn says suddenly, breaking the silence in the space around us.

I smile at her. "He's getting there."

She pauses thoughtfully, looking down and biting on her lower lip before she exhales and asks me softly, "When will he, you know, get his memories back?"

I breathe deeply through my nose, out again through my mouth. If that isn't the million dollar question… I find my gaze turning toward Willow and Tara, who are looking at each other instead of at me, and wondering if they'd been able to find something, anything, in the way of making Spike...Spike again.

"I don't know, Dawnie," I begin softly, glancing back at my little sister, then up to Mom. She's smiling at me hopefully but it doesn't reach her eyes. "I mean, yeah, he's acting more and more like...himself all the time, but he still isn't all there. It might...umm, it might take a little while." Dawn's smile falls a little as she nods like she understands, and my chest tightens again. I find myself moving toward her automatically, reaching my hand out and running it along a strand of her hair, brushing it behind her shoulder. "He'll get there, though," I promise her, stamping down the niggle in the back of my head that's telling me not to make another promise I can't keep. "You know, Spike. All with the majorly stubborn."

"Resilient, as well," Giles agrees softly, and I honestly can't tell if he's saying it for Dawn's benefit or mine. Maybe both. I turn my eyes toward him and give him a tiny, grateful smile. He acknowledges it by removing his glasses and polishing them on the hem of his shirt.

"What about things with you?" Willow asks, drawing my eyes toward her. "Are things okay between the two of you?"

"Yeah, Buff," Xander chimes in, surprising me as he turns more fully around on the sofa to look in my direction. "Things seemed pretty par for the course with you guys from our end."

"No," I say quickly, probably a little too quickly. "Things are different." I look down, letting go of Dawn's hair and folding my arms across my chest. "Trust me."

It's probably something in the tone of my voice, but nobody touches this one. Nobody makes a move to respond, reassure me that they're sure that isn't true, that things seemed normal between us. And I'm glad, because going into all that now...now that I've got the hopeful look back in Dawn's eye, is a definite not going to happen. I know what it is they saw. Spike and I are still connected, and if possible, the connection itself feels like it might be stronger than ever. Or maybe it's just...purer. Like it's in its raw form or something, the protective and lusty and more primal feelings that go along with it a little more undiluted without all that pesky love getting in the way.

"But the blood is helping?" Tara asks, and again, I'm grateful for her presence, for her quick subject change. She's so good at reading us, reading situations. I wonder if her sort of feeling like she'd been on the outside looking in all last year helped her with that.

I look toward her and nod. "Yeah, it really is," I say, smiling, a tiny bit less strained this time. "I swear I thought he was going to say 'bloody hell' in the bathroom a second ago."

She gives me a small, maybe a little confused smile, and I realize nobody else probably knows or has had time to notice what I have about Spike's speech patterns. Or lack of.

"Wait, what?" Xander asks, exchanging a glance with Anya before looking back at me. "Is that...code for something?" He makes a face at me, like he's imagining what it is I might _actually_ be talking about.

"No," I explain, shaking my head. "No, he just hasn't said it since waking up." I look to Giles, then back to the two witches. "That or any of the other weird Britishy things he normally says."

"Well, it hasn't even been twenty-four hours yet," Willow says, stepping forward and linking her slender fingers with Tara's. "I'm sure he'll be up...buggering a-and sodding and…" she trails off, her voice dropping to a quiet murmur, "bloodying away soon."

A small laugh escapes my lips before I can stop it, in spite of myself. And then a fresh wave of hurt rockets through me, coupled this time with frustration, and my smile falls instantly. I clear my throat, sobering. "Did you guys have any luck with those spells?"

Willow and Tara exchange another look before turning toward me, the red head nodding slowly. "A little." She lets go of Tara's hand and turns to her messenger bag, opening it and pulling out a spell book. "Do you want us to…?"

"I think this is the part of the meeting we aren't needed for," Mom says to Dawn, looking down at her and giving her a soft smile. Dawn frowns at her, glancing to me. I know she wants to stay. Wants to spend more time with Spike. And it isn't that I want them to go, but I also kinda do. Having this many people crammed into Giles's small living room is enough overstimulation even for those of us who don't have head trauma.

"Why don't you guys go ahead and go home?" I suggest, echoing Mom, reaching out on impulse and taking Dawn's hand in mine. "We're just gonna have a quick Scooby meeting and then I might even try and take Spike out." I smile at her, tight and strained, but still a smile. "If he's feeling up to it, I can maybe bring him by tomorrow night?"

I don't know if this makes her feel better or not, but she nods and starts toward the door anyway. Mom follows, pausing as she passes by me to put a hand on my arm, squeezing gently and lowering her voice just a little. "I brought some more clothes for you, over on the table." She points to them and I nod, acknowledging, super grateful for them. I feel like I've been wearing the same clothes for weeks. Mom tilts her head toward mine until our foreheads are almost touching. "If you need anything—"

"I'll call," I promise, my voice low, too.

I watch my family say their goodbyes and head out the front door, out into the early evening light. Once the door shuts again, my smile falls, lips forming a hard line. "Okay," I say, turning back toward the gang and bracing my hands on my hips. "What do we know?"

"You just wanna jump right in?" Willow asks, moving around to the table beside the sofa and laying the books from her bag down on top.

I nod.

"I kind of want to get everything out in the open before Spike gets out of the shower," I explain, casting a quick glance over my shoulder back in the direction of the bathroom. Through the thin walls, I can still hear the water running. "Somehow I don't think us discussing what kind of wicca-y, brain fixing, memory-back-putting spell we're gonna use on his _head_ is what he needs to hear right now."

Willow's eyes widen a little and she moves to quickly flip open the top book. "Good point," she says, finding the bookmarked page and scanning down it quickly. "We found this one here, but there's a little concern about it possibly…" she pauses, turning luminous green eyes toward mine. "... _not_ going so well."

I frown, brow creasing as I step closer to her and the books. "Why's that?"

Willow bites down on her lip and hands the book out to me. "Well apparently the last witch that tried it sort of…" She scrunches her nose up, like she's wincing. "...blew the person's head up."

My eyes widen and I reach for the book, scanning the words on the page quickly before looking back at her. "How about we table that one," I suggest, snapping the book shut and handing it back to her.

From behind me Giles makes a half laughing, half snorting sound. "Yes," he agrees, folding his arms over his chest. "That's probably for the best."

Willow makes a face at him and turns back to the book I've handed her, flipping it back open and turning to another dog-eared page that's much further back. "There's also this one that could work."

"Okay," I say, drawing the word out and glancing skeptically down at the page she has open. "What body part does this one blow up?"

There's a low chuckle from Xander's direction and Willow glares at him before looking back at me. "None, according to the research." She points with her finger to a specific point on the page, like she expects me to be able to read it. I lean forward even though I know I can't. "It would bring back at least the last year's worth of memories. Probably everything going back to when the Initiative chipped him in the first place," she says, and her voice goes quiet as we look at each other again. "But not much more than that."

"I probably would've mentioned that option first, Will," Xander quips, earning a wide, appreciate grin from his girlfriend and an eyeroll from the wicca.

I'm barely paying attention to either of them, though. My brain is stuck on what Willow's just said about the memory spell they'd found.

"So he'd…what?" I ask, grabbing for the book, staring at the words on the page as if I might suddenly be able to understand them. I frown, blinking up at my friend. " _Only_ remember life post-chip?"

I know she can hear it in my voice, because I can sure as heck hear it. That it's not enough. It's not _good_ enough.

"Well, okay, yes," she says quickly, taking the book out of my hands and laying it flat in her palms. " _But_ …but at least he'd remember you." Her eyes meet mine, still wide, searching my face. "He'd remember all of us, and the connection, and—"

I cut her off, the words a little harder than I mean to make them. "But nothing before last year."

"No, but, he'd remember your relationship, and…" I hear her trail off, feel her eyes on my face. IAnd I can hear the frown in her voice, too. "You aren't happy. I thought you'd be…you know," her voice pitches high, "happy."

She's right. I'm not happy. I mean, sure, I'm glad they were able to find something. I'm glad there might be an option or two magic-wise we might be able to use. But I hadn't even been 100% sold on using a spell even before they'd done the research, and the options so far aren't really getting my motor revving.

"I…I don't know, Will," I say, sighing, crossing my arms across my chest, immediately uncrossing my right hand to gesture toward the open book. "Yeah, he'd remember me, but that's…we're talking about a hundred plus years just… _poof_." I emphasize the word with a star bursty hand gesture, shaking my head. "Like they never happened."

Which means that everything about Spike that basically makes him Spike might be gone, too. For sure, everything that still makes him William would be. And while I hate knowing he doesn't remember anything now, it feels like I'd be cheating him out of too much or something to only give him back a year.

Tara steps forward then, moving so she's visible to me from behind Willow. "Trying to return any more than a year's worth of memories might do more harm than good, Buffy," she tells me gently.

"But he'd still have last year," Willow offers.

"And that's still one year more than he remembers now." Xander this time.

Then Anya. "That's something."

"No, I know," I agree quickly, feeling a little overwhelmed again, anxiety rising up into my chest. I step back from the table and a few feet away from everyone, suddenly needing the space. I take a deep breath, exhale it out slowly, listening for the steady thrum of the water in the pipes along the wall. "It's just…he didn't just _wake up_ one day and become the Spike we know, guys." _He didn't just wake up one day and become the vampire I'd fallen for, either._ I shake my head. "It's not like all those years don't matter."

The first person to speak is Giles. Voice low and clear, reaching me from his spot still half leaning against the counter top on the far side of the room.

"The years he spent killing, you mean." I turn to look at him, watching as he reaches up and removes his glasses for the second time today, looking down at them held loosely between his fingers. "The years he spent…torturing and maiming thousands of innocent people." His cool, grey eyes meet mine. "Are those the years you're referring to?"

It's the tone of his voice that does it. A sharp pang hits my stomach, a boiling, surging need to defend the memoryless vampire. I take an almost predatory step toward my Watcher and narrow my eyes. "Not just those years."

"Would it be so terrible if those memories weren't returned to him, Buffy?"

"It's all part of him, Giles," I counter, eyes narrowing further.

Giles takes a step toward me, his voice raising just a little. "And Willow is saying that it doesn't _have_ to be."

"That is _not_ —" I start to say.

"This isn't something—" Giles begins at the same time.

But Willow's shout is louder than either of us. "There's one more option."

"What?" Giles and I say in unison, both of us whipping our heads toward her. The moment echoes a very similar situation from a few weeks back inside the Magic Box.

"There's a spell we found for memory transfer," the redhead explains, setting down the smaller top book and pulling out the much larger, thicker volume below it. She flips it open and searches for the right page, finding it, scanning it over once before looking back toward Giles instead of me. "But it's dangerous, and the results are…" her eyes flit to mine. "Let's just say it's gotten mixed reviews."

"How does it work?" I ask, stepping closer to her again.

"How it sounds," she says, dipping the book so I can see it. "We'd take someone else's memories and we'd basically copy them and transfer them over." She scans the page again, shrugging. "Kind of like using a floppy disc on a computer, only fancier."

"So," I say slowly, thinking it over. We look up at each other at the same time. "You could take my memories and do this transfer thingy?"

She and Tara exchange a look, and they both nod. "That's what we were thinking."

"He'd get all of them, then?" I ask, the sound of the water still thrumming in the pipes letting me know Spike's still showering. "All my memories of him? Like, stories I've been told about him and stuff," I say, thinking of all the things I know about him, all the things I've heard. "Or just the first hand ones?"

Willow raises an eyebrow, turning to look down at the spell again. "All of it, I'm pretty sure."

"Okay," I say, running through it in my head. The options. If he'd get all of it, everything I know about him...I could do more research. I could have Giles help me, find out as much as I can about him before doing the transfer. I start to pace a little, already making plans in my head. "Okay, that's a little better than just a year."

"Why is it dangerous?" Giles asks, drawing me out of my plans and back into the living room.

It's a good question. One I hadn't thought to ask.

And apparently a pretty important one, judging by the long, poignant look exchanged by the two wiccas.

"If we do it wrong," Willow says softly, the look in her eyes and a twist of her lips downward letting me know the news is pretty far on the other side of good. "The person's memories we're trying to transfer could be lost in the process."

"Oh," I say, blinking dumbly.

"Oh, indeed," Giles echoes.

"That's all you found?" I ask after a minute, trying to push the doom and gloom to the back of my mind.

Willow nods. "Everything else was either too risky or were worse options than these."

 _Yeesh._

"I don't think I'm ready to make a decision yet." As if on cue, the water cuts out, the dripping, banging in the pipes beside my head stopping and signaling an end to the spell discussion. "I…I should talk to Spike first. See what he thinks."

"We should give him a few more days to allow the blood to do it's job, as well," Giles suggests, stepping away from the counter and more into the room. "If it is already helping then we can't be certain what another day or so might do."

"Okay," I say, agreeing with a nod. "I should probably go make sure everything's okay back there. We'll give it a few days and decide then."

"I love it when a plan comes together," Xander mutters, pushing himself up to his feet, Anya following quickly behind him.

"Will you let us know if you need anything?" Willow asks, picking up her books and shoving them back on her bag.

"I will," I promise, moving toward the door, watching the four of them as they prepare to file out, grabbing up coats and jackets off the rack as they go.

Anya stops in front of Giles, halfway out the door. "When do you think you'll be coming back to work?" She asks, shoving her arms through her coat sleeves as my Watcher rolls his eyes. "Because I've been thinking, if you're going to keep vacationing, then we should really talk about the pay scale. Because—"

"Ahn, sweetie," Xander puts his hands on her back, pushing her lightly, exchanging tight lipped expressions with Giles as he does. "Let's go."

"But this is important," she says huffily, but letting him force her out the door anyway.

"Thanks, guys," I say, stepping up into the doorway, shivering slightly at the breeze. My friends stop on the walkway just outside Giles's apartment and look back to me. "For everything," I continue, realizing that I haven't said thank you at all yet. "For being here. I know it's not…just thanks."

I watch them go and step back inside, shutting the door and turning back toward Giles.

"I should go make sure Spike's okay," I murmur, stepping around him, still feeling a little warm under the collar of my blouse after our short scuffle earlier.

Giles stops me with a soft spoken "He truly did seem to be better."

I pause, not turning around and nod. "I know."

"And how about you," Giles says, and I still don't turn to look at him. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," I say immediately. Then, "I mean, no." I frown, letting out a long sigh and glancing back at him over my shoulder. "Not really. But I have to be so I am. If that makes sense."

"For you, Buffy, yes. It does." Giles sighs, turning and looking almost wistfully out the window beside the front door. "I think I'll go check in on the magic shop, if that's alright. Anya has a point." He glances at me. "Now that Spike is awake I should think about going back."

It's my turn to look past him, out the window. The sun is sinking lower and lower by the minute. It'll be dark in a little while. And dark equals dinner bell. "Guess I should think about going back to work, too, huh?" I ask my Watcher, thinking dimly about the last night I'd patrolled. The night I'd been shot, the night of the chip's removal. Almost a week ago now.

God, who knows what kinds of nasties are running amuck in Sunnydale now.

"Don't rush yourself," Giles says, pulling his own jacket off the coat rack and moving to open the front door.

"Giles?" The sound of his name has him stopping halfway out the door, turning to look back at me over his shoulder. I pin him with a serious expression. "I love Spike. That means all of him." I pause for a moment, making sure he's hearing me. Waiting to see it on his face. "And I want as much of all him back as I can get."

When I reach the bathroom door, there's no sounds of the shower anymore. There isn't much sound at all, actually. It's very, very quiet.

Frowning, I reach a hand up and knock on the door, two light taps. "Spike?"

I jump when the door immediately opens, a flood of steam rushing out, swirling around my ankles and seeping through my pants. Spike is standing directly in front of me, black jeans on and zipped but unbuttoned, one fluffy grey towel in his left hand that he's using to roughly dry his hair.

He really is looking better, stronger, by the minute.

"All finished with your pow wow, then?" he asks me, voice silky and low, and I can feel it. A sharp surge of irritation welling from him and into my chest. His eyes are still dark as I look into them, but not the same lusty dark they'd been when I'd left.

He's angry. He's angry at me.

I'm just not sure why. If it's because of the way I'd left before, or what I'd left in the middle of. If it's because I'd said no. If it's because he'd heard what we'd been talking about out front.

I just know that I recognize the look on his face, have seen it more than a couple times in the years that I've known him.

I swallow.

"Uh, yeah," I say lamely, eyes glued to his, trying to force down the surge of nausea building in my gut. "I sent everyone home."

"Right," he says, his voice still smooth, but hard. He keeps his gaze glued to my face. I get that same wiggins inducing feeling again, like he's trying to read my mind as well as feel my emotions.

"I just thought it'd be easier," I offer lamely, watching him as he opens the door wider, stepping backward and turning his back on me.

"No, I get it," he says, voice slightly muffled as he bends down to retrieve the blue t-shirt pooled on the tile floor by the sink. He lifts it up, shaking it out, taking in the small water stain on the side. "Brilliant," he mutters, turning it right side in again, dropping the towel onto the toilet seat and putting the shirt back on. Water droplets cling to his curls where he hasn't quite got them dry, and I watch from my spot in the doorway as it drips onto the back of the shirt, leaving little tear stain shapes along the collar.

He turns back toward me, not looking at me as he runs his hand back through damp bleached strands, pulling the curls off his forehead and slicking them back.

"No reflection," he offers simply, shrugging, almost like an apology as he finally looks me in the eyes again. And it's not just anger there, but that same small flicker of hurt. "Right inconvenient, that."

It's right on the tip of my tongue, to tell him he looks perfect to me. But I bite down on it and just nod instead. I do think in this moment that being intimate isn't what either of us needs, but me being all mixy with my signals isn't what we need, either.

"Look," I begin slowly, not making a move to step closer to him, but not backing away, either. "About earlier, I didn't mean—"

"Know what you meant," Spike says quickly, cutting me off, but his voice isn't hard anymore. It's...well, it's almost apologetic. I look up at him, see the torn expression on his face. "I shouldn't've…" he trails off, closing his eyes for an extended second before opening them again. When he does, they're clear, Robin's egg blue. "'S water under the bridge."

I think he means it. At least, he wants to. But his emotions are as jumbled up as mine are, so I just nod instead of pressing it and take a small step back.

I clear my throat, folding my arms over my chest. "Willow and Tara found a couple spells that could help you," I offer, going for light and hopeful and just not quite getting there.

"Yeah?" Spike steps up to the doorway and gestures with an arm out, indicating for me to lead the way out into the hall. I do, and I feel him fall in step behind me. "Think they can put the puzzle back together, do they?"

My lips twitch slightly and I nod, glancing at him over my shoulder. "Something like that." I turn to face front again, moving through the hallway and out into the open living space. "We'll have to talk about the options at some point, but—" I turn to face him, stopping mid-sentence at the expression on his face, the sharp wave of something I don't recognize rolling down my back. Not confusion, but dim…slow understanding maybe. I frown. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," he says finally, shaking his head as if to clear it. His eyes are clearer, a little more focused when he looks at me again, eyebrows raised. "Said somethin' about options?"

I'm still frowning, wondering what it is that's just happened, but nod anyway. "Two of them." I lean against the back of the sofa, placing my hands on either side of my hips. "One would give you back basically the last year, but that's it."

Spike looks thoughtful as he folds his arms across his chest, leans against the wall and crosses his ankles together. "And the other?"

"Would give you more," I say simply, not sure how much detail I should go into about the second option. The risks it carries. But the vampire isn't going to let me off the hook that easily. Spike tilts his chin down, both brows raised high waiting for more information.

I sigh.

"A little more," I continue on. "Closer to the last four years." I pause, biting down on the inside of my cheek and look away from him. "But there'd be pieces missing, I think."

I feel his frown even though I don't see it, can hear it in the way his voice drops down when he asks "How you figure?"

I force myself to meet his eyes again. "Because the memories would be mine."

"Not sure I'm followin' you there, luv."

I freeze, ears perking at the familiar pet name. It had just slipped out. Simply, easily. Second nature. And I can tell by the look on his face, brows drawn together and eyes narrowed, that it doesn't mean anything to him. Just another word, another speech pattern that's slowly being returned to him.

So maybe all it is is time. Time and blood and eventually, everything'll just…come back.

"Um, yeah," I say, shifting slightly so my butt is resting on top of the sofa, my tip toes on the wood floor. "They'd take my memories and share them with you. So you'd pretty much know what I know, and remember what I remember." It sounds weird, I know it does. I offer Spike a small, strained smile and a shoulder shrug. "Make us even more with the oneness."

The vampire tilts his head to the side, narrowing his eyes on me like he's trying to understand. "They'd be false memories, then."

"Not false," I say immediately, not liking the way he's said it. I frown and try to think of a better way to explain it. "Just…different from your original ones."

Spike's eyes widen, but his lips start to curve upward. I recognize this expression, too. The same one I'd seen ten thousand times when he'd been helping me study for my history exam.

I frown deeper at him. I'm for sure not the person to be explaining all this.

But I must've done something right, because the vampire is nodding now, unhooking his ankles and standing up straight again. "Well, I s'pose it's better than nothin'."

I nod, pushing myself off the sofa and moving to the kitchen, yanking open the fridge and pulling the last of the O neg out, tossing it into the microwave.

"Kind of what I thought," I say over my shoulder, caught off guard when I feel Spike step into the small kitchen behind me. I ignore him, reaching for a fresh mug when the timer beeps. "But we're giving it a few days," I tear the blood packet open, draining it into the mug and turning around to face the bleached blonde. "Trying to let the blood do it's job. Here." I hand him the mug, feeling electric sparks shoot up my arm when my fingers graze his.

Spike smirks down at me, lifting the full mug up to his lips and murmuring "I didn't ask for this."

"You need to keep drinking," I say flatly, maneuvering past his arm so I can slide out of the galley kitchen and back into the living room. "And it's the last you're going to get for a while of the human variety, so enjoy it."

And if I ever thought those words were going to pass my lips…

I reach my spot against the back of the sofa and turn around to face a still-smirking vampire, pouty lips stained crimson from the blood. "Do you need anything else?"

"Could use a change of clothes," Spike says, lifting the mug and taking another long swallow, nearly draining it. "Kit I'm wearin' is gettin' a bit dodgy."

I nod. "Since you're awake I'll probably try and patrol tonight. I can stop by your crypt and get some on my way back."

Spike's eyes flash suddenly, the half-amused smirk fading from his lips as he sets the mug down on the counter. "By yourself?"

A rush of concern floods my chest, making me feel warm and tingly, and a little irritated, all at the same time.

"Yeah." I frown. "It's not a thing, Spike. I usually patrol on my own."

Spike eyes me skeptically, narrowing his gaze on me. "Why do I get the feelin' you aren't bein' completely honest with me?"

Probably because I'm not.

"I'm being totally honest," I half-lie, working to keep my voice even and flat. "I usually patrol by myself."

Spike catches the word, scarred eyebrow raising as he points a knowing finger in my direction. "You're sayin' usually in a funny way."

Oh, boy. "It's nothing."

There's a tense edge to his voice when he responds. "Doesn't feel like nothin', Buffy."

He says my name in that way. I know he doesn't mean to, know he doesn't even know about it, or about the deal we'd made not to use it, but the surge of irritation in my cheeks is instant anyway. It floods my face and makes me narrow my eyes, even as I start to explain. "Before the whole chip removal memory loss incident, we found something out. And you hadn't been super jazzed about me patrolling by myself."

"I see. And what was this somethin' we found out?"

Again, the same tone of voice, the unspoken demand.

I grit my teeth and inhale, exhaling slowly as the words leave my lips. "The government agency I told you about last night?" I ask, gesturing with one hand toward the front door. Like they might be outside right this second.

Spike nods to acknowledge he knows what I'm talking about, his dark brows knitting together, forehead creasing. "The one that put that thing in my noggin to begin with."

It's not a question, it's knowledge.

I drop my voice down low, saying the rest almost under my breath as I push myself off the sofa and start moving toward the door. "They're back in town."

Another wave of concern, this time coupled with a much stronger rush of frustration from the vampire behind me. "They're what?"

I make a beeline for the front door, glancing outside to see the sun is just starting to set behind the trees in the west. If I don't want him doing something stupid, like following me, I need to move now. "So I'll just swing by your crypt," I say breezily, moving to grab my jacket from the coat rack by the door. "And grab you some fresh clothes—"

An iron tight grip closes around my outstretched arm, spinning me back to face Spike. He's practically towering over me, drawn up to his full height and looking down into my face with burning eyes.

"You really think I'm gonna let you go out all on your lonesome after you tell me that?" he asks heatedly, my eyes drawn immediately to the ticking muscle in his jaw. His hand is too tight around my upper arm, but I don't pull away from him yet.

I sigh, letting him tug me closer to him as I roll my eyes. "They didn't chip me, Spike."

His grip loosens, sliding down from around my bicep to cup me by the elbow.

"No," he agrees slowly, voice low. "But they must be some type of dangerous to you if I hadn't been keen on you goin' out without me, yeah?"

"I can handle myself," I assure him, softening my voice a little and trying to remember that this version of Spike doesn't know what I'm capable of. Has never seen me fight, has never fought me. All he knows is the intense need the claim inspires in him to protect me, like he'd tried to explain to me so long ago. I belong to him, and that's the one thing both he and his demon seem to fully understand, vampnesia or no.

"I'm sure you can, luv," he says, and his tone has softened a little, too. There's a brief pause as we stare at each other, another small flicker in his gaze. Then, "But you're still not goin' out there alone."

I do pull my elbow out of his grip now, taking a measure step away from him and back toward the door. "Well, you're not coming with me."

He counters the step I've just taken back with a forward movement of his own.

"Why not?" Spike asks, like he doesn't know exactly why not. Another thing that's so unbelievably Spike to me—this inherent stubbornness. The only person I've ever met who can give me a full on sprint for my money.

I blink up at him dumbly, eyes widening as I scoff out loud. "You're kidding right?"

Spike scowls at me, tilting his head to the side, his voice biting and sarcastic when he speaks again. "Is that somethin' I do a lot?"

I ignore the memory-loss gibe and plow on, shaking my head. "Spike, twenty-four hours ago you were lying comatose on Giles's bed. You're in no condition to come patrolling. You need to be resting."

"Bloody hell, Buffy," he half shouts, causing me to freeze again, a new course of shivers rocketing down my spine at the sound of the familiar phrase rolling off his tongue. "Was in a coma for five sodding days," he continues, not missing a beat, the words tight between his clenched teeth. "Think I've rested enough, don't you?" The ire fades a little from his expression as he looks at me, taking in the stunned expression on my face. He leans away from me, blinking. "What?"

But what am I supposed to tell him? That he's sounding more and more like himself every minute. That hearing him call me luv, and hearing him use those familiar words and phrases makes me want to run and throw myself into his arms. That he's making it more and more difficult to remember that he's still not himself.

That the more he sounds like himself, the more my heart cracks and breaks open a little wider in my chest?

I can't say that.

"Nothing," I say instead of the things I want to say, the words bouncing around in my head and shake my head to clear it. "Look, you aren't at your full strength, okay? There's no way you'd be able to fight if it came down to it."

Spike sniffs, rolling his shoulders back and eyeing me through his lashes. "Think I can hold my own."

"No, Spike," I say flatly, my voice hard as I turn and snatch my jacket off the coat rack and move to put it on. "My answer is no."

I start to move toward the door again, only to be caught by another vice-like grip around my left wrist this time, catching me and spinning back toward him.

"Don't want you out there alone," he says angrily, nostrils flaring as his frustration hits me full tilt, coupling with mine until it rises, hot and heavy in my chest. Sudden, violent and unmanageable.

"Well I don't want you out there with me," I say, emphasizing the word when I cover his hand with mine and wrench it away roughly, turning my back on him and moving toward the door for a third time.

Spike growls, and I feel him lunging for me before he even does it, giving me time to block his hand from closing around me even as he says my name. "Buffy—"

I can hear it, too, that he's going to say it that way. That he isn't going to give me a choice.

And even though he doesn't know that's what he's doing, I feel my temper flare deep in my stomach and snap as I whirl on him, hands flying to brace against the wall of his chest.

"No!" I shout, pressing my palms hard into him until he stops short and I can look up into his stormy eyes. "No," I say again, not quite as loud, but still firm. Unyielding.

"I spent the last five days thinking I might lose you. Seeing you lying there, unresponsive, and thinking you might never wake up. And then you did, and it was amazing, but you …" I trail off, my eyes stinging, the words you still aren't even you right now floating in the air between us. I pause to get a hold on myself, sucking in a deep breath and shaking my head through the exhale before I let my lashes open again, pinning him with serious eyes. "But you are out of your mind if you think I'm going to risk losing you again this soon. So sit down and shut up and stay here where it's safe." I sigh, shoulders sagging, palms slipping together until they dip into the center of his chest. My spot. "Okay?"

He stares at me for a moment before a slow, appreciative smirk tickles his lips, and he reaches a hand up to tuck a loose strand of hair back behind my ear.

"Think I know why I loved you," he says, and I think he means for it to be sweet. A gentle sentiment.

It steals the air from my lungs, the fact that he's used the past tense. Loved, not love. Whether he'd meant to or not, whether it means anything or not…which my logical side is telling me it doesn't, but the logical part of my brain is being drowned out by the hollow thudding of my pulse hammering in my ears.

My stomach rolls, my eyes burn, and I just need to leave for a little while. Need to be away from this.

If the vampire notices the change in my mood, my emotions, he doesn't show it.

"I'm just gonna do a quick sweep," I promise him, clearing my throat, satisfied that he's going to stay put. "I'll be back in a couple hours."

"Better be," Spike says softly, eyes scanning my face, searching my eyes before dropping down the line of my nose and landing on the curve of my lip. I watch him swallow, his voice a little thicker when he speaks again. "'M sendin' in a rescue party if you're not."

"As long as it isn't you," I counter dryly, forcing a thin smile to my lips as I pull away from him, pulling my hands back to my sides.

Spike chuckles, shaking his head as he watches me move toward the door. "You are one bloody stubborn hint, you know that?"

I turn toward the door and murmur, almost under my breath, "Someone told me that once before."

He inhales like he's about to say something else, but I'm already opening the door, stepping out into the cool breeze I'd seen traces of after waking up earlier in the loft. I probably need a coat instead of a jacket, the thin material of my blouse providing none whatsoever in the way of protection from the wind, but I'm not about to go back inside now.

Squaring my shoulders, I reach up and wipe the single tear that's escaped away from my cheek before I take off at a jog in the direction of the cemeteries.

I should've paid attention that one day I'd come here with Spike so he could change. I mean, I'm not completely lost. I have a sort of vague idea where his clothes are. Somewhere in the way-too-dark-to-see-anything underground room, below the hatch in the floor.

Which is knowledge that's about as helpful as it sounds.

I'd lit the small brass candelabra on his chair side table and brought it down into the cavernous space with me, but it only illuminates a small circle a few feet in front of me. Enough to not break my toes, but not enough to really see where I'm going.

So I have no idea what to think when I run into it.

A bed.

A massive, gigantic, huge bed in the center of the room. It's the same bed from Spike's nightmares, the one I'd seen in my own. It's the same but different. This bed is the same size, the large canopy over the top. But the coverings are different. This mattress is covered in a light colored comforter, it looks almost lacy from here, and equally light colored sheets. It's funny, it's not how I would have pictured Spike's bed. It's…prettier. More delicate.

I think I'd always imagined like…red silk sheets or something.

And all along the floor near the bed are giant, colorful rugs.

I step a little closer, raising the candelabra higher so I can see what else is there. A chest of drawers which is where I'm guessing I'll find the many pairs of jeans and t-shirts, a small dresser, a mirror.

It's the mirror that has me stopping short, staring at my own clouded reflection through the darkness. Why would Spike have put a mirror in his crypt?

I step closer to the dresser and mirror, setting the candelabra down so the flames' flickering light is reflected through the space. It illuminates just slightly more of the space, enough for me to leave it there and move toward the chest. The top two drawers are shirts, one for the black tees and one for the button downs, the bottom two are pants. No underwear drawer, but I knew already there wouldn't be one.

I start pulling shirts and jeans out, folding them and stacking them on the ground to my left. I'm about halfway through when I hear it.

The crypt door above me, creaking open, slamming shut, and then immediately—the sound of booted feet on the stone floor.

I freeze, air catching in my lungs and my heart suddenly leaping, pounding against my chest a million miles a minute.

For all of about five endless seconds, before I realize who it is.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," I grumble, grabbing up the stack of clothes and tucking them into my chest, reaching for the candelabra and making my way back to the ladder.

His back is turned to me as I emerge from the underground room, bent down, examining the stack of books on the lower shelf of the small table beside the green chair.

"What part of 'stay where it's safe' did you not understand?" I ask loudly, anger simmering just below the surface as I slam the candles down on top of his sarcophagus-turned-bar, tossing the clothes down beside it and whirling around to face him.

The vampire turns toward me, and the first thing I'm struck by is how out of place he looks here right now. Wearing nothing but the black denim and the same indigo colored t-shirt he'd been wearing. Hair loose and tousled into curls instead of slicked back, and no leather duster.

His facial expression, though. _That_ is all Spike.

"You don't seem all that surprised to see me, pet," he says simply, and just like before, the little nickname sends a shiver rippling down my spine as I watch him casually slip both hands into the front pockets of his jeans. And then he tilts his head to the side, lashes sweeping over me, lips quirking just slightly on their move back up. "Aren't you gonna ask me how I knew to come here?"

I plant my hands on my hips, tilting my own head to the side to mimic him. Pretending the look on his face, the use of the familiar pet name haven't affected me at all.

"Don't have to ask. We're connected, remember?" I remind him, drumming my fingers into my hips. "I could have found you the same way if it'd been reversed."

Spike's smirk turns more genuine, a little more smiley than smirky and he nods. "Of that, I have no doubt."

We stare at each other for a moment, a space of about five feet between us. The cables burning in the brass candle holder are the only light in the room, casting warm shadows across the alabaster of his cheeks, making the azure irises flicker.

I take a deep breath in and let it out slowly, dropping my hands away from my hips and shaking my head. "What are you doing here, Spike?"

The vampire answers me with a shrug, casting his eyes around the crypt's interior as he steps closer to me. "Got bored."

His eyes light on mine, and I raise a skeptical eyebrow. He sighs, shoulders sagging and rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. Like he's been found out.

"Got worried," he amends, shaking his head as he turns glimmering blue back toward me. And then his brow furrows, as though remembering something really far away. "I felt somethin'."

He crosses the rest of the space between us, pulling his right hand out of his pocket and reaching for my left, hooking his fingers under mine to splay them out across the back of his hand. He leans a little closer, eyes raking over the bloodied knuckles, scanning the swelling that's already starting along my middle finger. I watch his face as he examines it a little closer, then pulls his own left hand out of his pocket and flexes it, glancing toward it as if he expects there to be twin injuries there.

"'S broken," he says softly, turning his hand again so he can glide the pad of his thumb over the bruise.

"Probably is, if you felt it," I agree, thinking back to how bad it had hurt when the injury first happened. I hadn't run into any friendly neighborhood Initiative boys on patrol, but it hadn't been a total bust, either. Got a little action on my way into Restfield with a pair of less-than-friendly horned demons on their way back from Willy's. I'd taken out more aggression than had been strictly necessary on the pair before finally finishing the job, and had cracked my fist on the side of one of their massive horns in the process. I'd been only a little concerned that Spike would be able to feel it.

I guess I should have been more careful.

"Told you I didn't want you comin' out here alone," Spike reminds me gently, lashes fluttering as he looks back into my eyes.

And I told you to stay put," I counter just as gently, enjoying the feel of his thumb brushing back and forth over my fingers. "I guess we're even."

He nods just once, eyes scanning mine. "Guess so."

I open my mouth to say something else, I'm not sure what, but Spike beats me to it.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, I almost don't think he's said it at all until he looks up at me, and I can see it written all over his face. "About earlier," he clarifies, his hand gripping mine just a little tighter than before. His eyes are dark, gleaming, fathomless. "I didn't mean…the way it sounded, s'not what I meant."

He doesn't clarify what it is he's asking about, and he doesn't need to. We both know. I knew there hadn't been a chance he hadn't felt my reaction to it when he'd said it. Probably just hadn't known what to say, how to deal with it at the time. Even now, he's apologizing, but I'm not sure what he had meant by what he'd said if he hadn't meant it the way it sounded.

Not that there's any point in playing paleontologist with it now. It's kind of hurting my head, anyway.

"It's really okay," I say honestly, just ind of wanting to make with the forgetting of it already, returning the gentle squeeze of his hand. "Just pedantics, anyway."

Spike chuckles, and my eyes shoot to his.

"What?" I ask.

Spike tilts his head, grinning at me. "Semantics, luv. The word you're lookin' for there."

I blink, wrinkling my nose up. "Oh."

Spike chuckles one more time, shakes his head, then he lets go of my hand and steps back, turning to glance around the crypt again. "This my place, then?"

"Yep." I pop the "P", the sound echoing a little in the space around us. It's been a while since I've actually been back in Spike's crypt— two weeks at least, if not longer than that—and I almost feel like I'm seeing it with fresh eyes, too.

I watch as Spike turns around, walks slowly over to the green armchair, leans down and brushes his hand over the armrest. I watch the chipped black nails ghost over the fabric before he suddenly whirls around and drops down onto the seat, legs sprawling out in front of him. He bends his right knee and extends the left, hooking his thumb through a belt loop and splaying his fingers across his thigh.

Looking instantly more in place than he had moments ago.

His brow furrows and he glances down, then back toward me. I feel a surge of fresh confusion settle in my stomach, a long with a little more frustration.

"What is it?" I ask, moving toward him automatically. Like a string is connected from my chest to his, pulling me steadily closer until I'm directly beside the chair.

"Something…" he begins slowly, shaking his head as he looks at me. More frustration. "There's something almost familiar here."

My chest tightens a little.

"You've lived here for over a year," I say, moving a little closer to him. "It's probably a little more familiar surroundings wise than Gilesis—"

"No," he says quickly, cutting me off, azure eyes positively burning into mine now. "It's something else."

I frown, watching him steadily as he turns to face forward again, then leans his head back into the chair. Closing his eyes, inhaling deeply, his shoulders relax into the chair's cushion on the exhale.

"It's you," he says finally, eyes still closed. His lips twitch slightly like he wants to smile, and when his lashes flutter and his eyes open again, they're completely black. "I can smell you."

He says purposefully, like it's supposed to mean something important, the husky quality his voice has taken on sending sharp tingles from the roots of my hair down to my toes.

It happens before I can think. Suddenly, so suddenly that it nearly knocks me to my knees, I'm hit with a rapid surge of heat. White-hot, powerful. Consuming. I have just enough time to recognize what it is before both of his hands are wrapping around my wrists, a low growl ripping past his lips as he yanks me down onto his lap.

I fall onto him awkwardly, both my knees together, hooked over his left thigh, my hands flying to his shoulders automatically for balance.

"What are you do—" His lips are on mine, silencing the question before I can finish it, lips claiming mine with bruising force. His hands are already at my back, twisting in the fabric of my top, pushing it up to dig his fingers greedily into my skin. I gasp at the chill of his hand son my bare back, and his tongue is inside my mouth. Stroking mine, coaxing it to dance with his, wordlessly demanding i mold myself to him.

All the desire, the craving, the need I'd felt for him earlier in the day comes rushing back, pushing everything else out in it's wake. I can't remember why I'd said no. Can't remember why I'd ever say no to this. To Spike. To the way he grips me so tight it almost hurts, presses my chest into his, forcing my hands to slide from his shoulders to around his neck. I slide my hands up the nape of his neck, thread both of them into the soft platinum curls and pull, tilting his head back, lifting myself slightly so I can kiss him more deeply.

His answering growl sends a vibration through me, rumbling from his chest to mine. I dig at him, clawing at his curls, moaning and whimpering these desperate, completely undignified noises into his mouth and I don't care. Can't care. There is no thought here, no rationale.

But the heat is still here, pulsing, burning it's way from my chest, down into my stomach, and lower. Lower still. Until I can't breathe, can't think, can't feel anything except for this heat. This burning. Primal, animalistic need. The bite mark on my neck is pounding, throbbing in time with my heart beat, my inner muscles as they clench.

I cry out loudly when he breaks our kiss, moving at a lightning quick speed to lock his lips around his exposed mark on my neck, hands dropping down to my hips to grip me tightly. He lifts me up and twists me around at the same time so that my legs are straddling his, running the tip of his tongue along the lower curve of the mark and bringing a strangled whimper of pleasure from both our lips.

Through the haze of the primitive desire clouding my mind, the feel of his blunt teeth skating across my throat, toward my shoulder, I realize why this might feel familiar to him. What he'd meant when he'd said he smelled me, why it had triggered this reaction in him.

Part of him remembers. Or if he doesn't quite remember, he recognizes it. Or his body does. This place. This position. This moment.

And if that, just that, is enough to trigger something…

I slide my hands away from his neck and down between us, fisting the hem of his shirt tightly and yanking it up, tossing it to the floor and leaning toward him. Wrapping my hands around the smooth skin of his bare shoulders, hooking my nails into his skin, I lean down and sink my teeth into my mark.

Spike reacts instantly, a loud, pleasured gasp on the heels of an impassioned growl, and then we're moving. Up, off the chair, my legs wrapping tightly around his waist as he walks us backward, my own tongue tracing patterns over the sweet, smoky tang of his skin. He hasn't smoked in days, but the scent is still here.

And then he's slamming me down on top of something hard and cool, moving away from me long enough to rip my blouse down the middle and toss it to either side before he steps between my legs again, buries his hands in my hair and kisses me. My lips are already swollen and bruised from our kisses earlier, but this is different. Still wild, savage, but intentional. Like he'll find every secret, every mystery of the universe, every reason why with each new sweep of his tongue.

And I cling to him. Nails digging trenches into his upper back, legs still wrapped tight around him. My eyes are burning, sobs scratching the back of my throat, brought close to tears for this sheer, undiluted need of him.

It's insanity. And at the same time, I think it might be the only thing that's ever made perfect sense.

"Bloody _hell_ ," he breathes suddenly, his lips pressed to mine, stealing kisses between each word. Pulling away from me roughly only to dive back in, suck the curve of my bottom lip between his teeth. "'M sorry. I shouldn't—"

But he sounds so much like himself now. So much. _Too_ much. The things that had been missing this afternoon are here, and it's impossible for me to stop. To pull away.

"Shh," I shush him, hating the words as they leave his mouth, fighting against the rushing wave of guilt that pushes past the heady haze of desire and threatens to take all this away.

"You said no," Spike reminds me, dropping his forehead against mine and groaning as I roll my hips upward, using the force of my legs. "Before, you said—"

"Forget it," I say quickly, desperately, stealing my own urgent, greedy kisses from his lips. His hands and my hands are everywhere at once, sparks shooting across my skin, erupting every inch in goose bumps. "Forget what I said."

"Buffy, luv." The word. My name. It drives the flames inside me raging higher instead of cooling them down like he'd meant to. "I can't…I don't…"

He doesn't have to say it for me to understand. He can't remember. Doesn't remember. It's the reason I'd said no before, I dimly realize as I stare at him through glazed eyes. Seeing a lust that's completely matched to mine echoing back at me.

"Please." I hear my voice, but it doesn't sound like mine. Desperate and pleading and breathless. " _Please_ , Spike," I beg, pulling him in closer to me, my lips ghosting over his as my eyes fall shut. "God, I just…" My voice breaks pathetically, but I don't care. "Plea—"

Spike cuts me off and answers me at the same time, crushing his lips to mine, dropping his hands between us to the button of my pants and surrendering with a groan.


	39. Chapter 38

The room is spinning.

It's spinning as Spike hurriedly yanks the zipper of my pants down, tears them away from my legs, ripping them at the seems the same way he'd torn my blouse a moment ago. His mouth trails heatedly down my neck as he throws them to the stone floor, leaving me in nothing but the bra and underwear I hadn't bothered to match. I watch through half closed eyes as he steps back to look down at me, his eyes dark and hungry as they rake over my bare skin. My hands shake slightly as I watch him, blood boiling in my veins, legs itching to wrap around his hips and yank him back to me.

"I don't…" Spike begins, his voice strained and husky and low, sparking over my skin. My fingers reach to wrap around the edge of the stone sarcophagus to stop their shaking. "Don't understand how I could forget this," he whispers silkily, strong hands grazing over my collarbone, over my shoulders, down my heated arms. And then his grip tightens almost painfully around my wrists, wrenching them away from the stone and pulling them back around his neck. Securing them there, he lunges forward and presses his hips harder against mine with a guttural growl, attacking my lips again.

"Your taste," he murmurs, running his tongue along my bottom lip, his hands sliding up my back almost reverently. He unhooks my bra and pulls the straps down my arms, tossing it aside and replacing it with his hands so quickly it steals the air from my lungs. "Your skin." His hands knead the tender skin of my breasts, palming them, brushing the pad of his thumb over the soft swells and drawing a strained gasp from my lips. Then he lets go of me, dragging his right hand down to my waist and raising the left, trailing it lightly up my arm. He leans into me, forehead against mine, closing his fingers over my hand.

If possible, his voice drops even lower, huskier. "Your touch." Slowly, using just the slightest pressure, he drags my hand over his shoulder and down his chest. My tongue darts out to wet my lips, eyes fixated on his hand splayed over mine as he pulls it down over his stomach, the thin line of curls, finally coming to rest at the waistband of his jeans. His words, the heat that's raging in my veins, the fire I can't get a hold of, can't put a stop to. The white hot, raging inferno building in my chest, partly mine and partly his. My fingers start moving immediately, like they have a mind of their own, popping the button open and dragging the zipper down, leaning into him so I can steal a hot, open mouthed kiss from him.

"Fuck, even your scent," he breathes, tearing his lips away from mine as I impatiently attempt to shove the denim over his hips. I look at him and his nostrils flare, eyes flashing. "You smell _amazing_."

And suddenly his hands fly to cover mine, stopping me from pushing the jeans the rest of the way down. "No," he says heatedly, eyes stormy, burning down into mine. "Not here."

I frown, shaking my head. "What?"

If not here, where? This is it. The crypt. Where we've always been together this way. So I don't understand, can't make sense of what he's saying through the lusty haze clouding everything else.

"Not bloody well doin' this here," he says again, pulling my hands away from his hips and hooking them one more time behind his neck.

"Is something wrong? Did I—"

"No, luv. I just...God, this is bloody stupid but...Know it's not the first time, yeah? For you. But it feels like it for me. Don't feature takin' you on top of cold stone."

"Okay," I say softly, wrapping my legs around his hips, hooking my ankles together at the small of his back and pressing my bare chest firmly into his. I can't help the desperate whimper that escapes my lips at the friction between us anymore than Spike can help the groan from his. Arms wrapping tightly around my waist, greedy hands reaching and digging fingers into the soft place my hips meet the backs of my thighs. "Over there." I tilt my head in the direction of the hatch, the opening in the floor, and Spike nods. And then we're moving again, fast across the crypt floor. I lean forward and press my lips to his jaw, trailing kiss down to his ear, then down to his neck. My eyes are shut, blind to anything other than him, so I barely notice when we suddenly stop moving. We're standing at the edge of the opening in the floor.

"Down there?" He asks me hesitantly, looking over my shoulder and down into the darkness. realizing through the fog that there's something significant about this. About the fact that there's a bed in the cavernous space below us. That there's a bed down there that he'd never bothered to mention to me before.

I nod, squeezing my arms a little tighter. "Trust me." And I let go of him, sliding out his arms and back to my feet, moving back toward where I'd left the glowing candelabra earlier and picking it back up. "Hold this," I tell him, turning around to slip down onto the first rung of the ladder leading down. I reach the bottom and call up to him, watching from my place on the flat stone as first his now bare feet come into view, then the black denim, then the flickering candlelit alabaster of his back and shoulders. When he turns around, I reach out and take the candles from him, using the small circle of light to guide my way back toward the bed, the chest and the dresser with the mirror.

It's a wiggy little reversal we've got going here, me leading Spike through the underground room in his crypt that I hadn't set foot in myself until about thirty minutes ago. I guess it's kind of nice, in a weird way. Like we're discovering this secret space together.

"Is this more what you had in mind?" I ask softly, setting the brass candelabra down on top of the dresser like I had before, the reflection casting a slightly wider circle of light out over the neatly made bed. I turn toward him to see him watching me intently, head cocked thoughtfully to the side. His eyes trail over my skin, from the tip of my chin down to my toes and back up again, and then move sideways. Over the white lace bedspread, the four wooden posts, the fluffy looking pillows...then finally, back to me.

There's a beat between us.

"Come here," Spike whispers huskily, sweetly demanding. That same tone of voice he'd used back at the apartment, but this time I get the feeling he knows exactly what he's doing. My legs obey him without thinking, crossing the space between us until I'm standing directly in front of him. He reaches for me, planting his hands firmly at the curve of my waist and pushing me back until my knees brush the edge of the mattress. "Sit," he commands again, voice very low.

I sit.

The vampire looks down at me through his lashes, hooded eyes that I can't really read in the candle light. I can see the smirk, though. The way it curves just the right side of his mouth up as he cocks his head to the side and murmurs, "Neat trick, that."

I manage to mock glare at him, ignoring the trembling that's started in my legs and the way my skin seems to stretch and tighten and heat up beneath his gaze. "It's cheating," I tell him, looking up at him as he takes a deliberate step toward me.

"Is that somethin' I don't do?" he asks me silkily, taking another step so that the denim of his jeans is grazing the bare skin of my knees, dark eyes smoldering down at me in such knowing way that I'd bet in this moment the vampire standing above me is exactly the same as he'd been a week ago. Spike drops to a crouch in front of me, eyes level with mine, resting his forearms casually across his thighs as he tilts his head back the other way. "Am I above cheatin' to get what I want?"

It's a little funny that he asks it this way, so that it sounds all rhetorical and I-don't-need-an-answer-y. His voice layered and seductive, but there's just an eensy bit of uncertainty there. Enough to make me think he's, ya know, _actually_ asking. So I shake my head, answering him honestly, watching the corner of my vampire's lips twitch in response.

"As I thought," he says quietly.

And I watch him, his eyes glued to mine, as he drops to his knees in front of me and hooks his fingers beneath the elastic of my underwear and pulls them slowly down. All the rush, all the frenzy, all the manic, boiling passion from upstairs has ebbed, replaced by something...smoother. Velvety. The heat is there, as strong as ever. I can feel it pulsing between us. This vibrating, humming thing that's just as alive as I am.

Spike keeps his gaze riveted to mine as he slides the the light pink lace over my knees, down my calves, finally slipping it off my feet and tossing it aside. His eyes drop down, raising little goose bumps over every inch of skin they cover. "You're so soft," he whispers, eyes on his hands as he trails them up my legs. Skating cool palms over my knees, achingly slow up my thighs, covering inch by agonizing inch of bare skin there. This is different. This, how _slow_ it is. A different kind of heady, dizzying feeling than before. Than ever before, maybe. Just as hot, just as passionate, but slower. Not a rolling boil but a burning simmer.

My breath catches suddenly, sticks in my throat and my legs start to shake beneath his touch. I inhale, letting my eyes flutter shut as his thumbs come to the apex of my thighs, brushing through the patch of wiry curls there and making me shudder.

Below me, Spike chuckles. "And so bloody responsive." Then a pause, a wave of subtle...uncertainty? Insecurity? Something I'm not used to, different than the confusion or the frustration from earlier today. I hear him exhale, and the feeling is gone. "Guessin' I already knew that, though." His thumb flicks out and grazes over me again, drawing a soft gasp.

I open my hazy eyes to look down at him, watch the flickering shadows dance across his face, his bare chest. He's barely touched me at all, but the _anticipation_ of his touch, the feel of his hands on me when it feels like it's been so long.

"You're a tease," I manage weakly, drawing that perfect smirk onto his lips, his thumbs brushing back down over me and rubbing a slow, torturous circle around my most sensitive spot before one of them presses hard down onto it. I gasp again, both hands flying out behind me as my back arches, pushing my pelvis harder into his fingers.

"Am I, now?" He purrs, his thumb starting move in slow strokes, back and forth. I can feel my lashes fluttering again, eyes rolling back, hands slipping further down the comforter. Everything feels bright, heightened. The lacey fabric beneath my legs, the pressure of his right hand squeezing my hip, the feather-light strokes of his left.

It's so good. God, so good and hot and slow and my skin is tight, burning beneath his touch in the darkness. I feel my inner muscles contract, clench in the same anticipation the rest of my body is humming with.

"Tell me," he whispers against my skin. His mouth is on my leg now, sucking and nipping at the inside of my right thigh. Soft, wet, open mouthed kisses trailing over flaming skin. "Tell me what you like, pet." Then higher. "Tell me where to touch you." Higher still.

He lingers here, lips and tongue making play across the patch of skin where my hip meets my leg, nibbling and sucking but refusing to move higher until I tell him what he's asked. I turn bleary eyes down to him, breath catching when I see that he's looking up at me.

It's a spur of the moment kinda thing, and I don't know why I feel so strongly about it. But I shake my head and tell him no. I won't tell him.

I want to see if he remembers.

Spike pauses, pulling his mouth away from my skin and narrowing his eyes at me. Another quick surge of frustration ripples between us, but it doesn't last, replaced just seconds later with a fresh surge of heat.

And when he flicks his tongue out, one long, slow lick straight up my center, I cry out and collapse back onto the mattress. Eyes closed, one hand buries itself in Spike's platinum curls and the other tangles itself into my own hair.

"Oh," I breathe, arching my back and my hips up, twisting my fingers in his hair to pull him closer to me. " _Yes_."

He growls against my flesh, the vibration sending tingles rocketing to my clit. His hands are gone in a flash, hooking beneath the backs of my thighs and seizing my waist to drag me to the edge of the bed, his fingers replaced by the slow, languorous movements of his cool tongue. He moans into me, and my head goes dizzyingly, deliriously empty. Nothing matters. Nothing but this. Cool hands at my waist, strong arms below my legs, and his tongue. God, the things he does with his tongue. Long, indulgent licks. Up and down. Back and forth. Slow, swirling circles. Like he's kissing me. Hot and wet and open mouthed. Not teasing anymore, but tasting. Exploring. He swipes his tongue up one side, then down the other. I twist my hands harder into his hair and whimper something that's supposed to be his name, but comes out too breathy. repeats that, then sucks the tender piece of flesh between his lips and swirls his tongue around it. He brings one hand up and splays his fingers possessively over my pelvis, the palm of his hand pressing down, thumb finding my clit all over again. And then his tongue is inside me, all the way, as far as it can go.

"Oh, God," I cry out, arching into him again, trying to force him deeper. Spike moans again, the sound delicious and hotly muffled against me. "I need," I gasp, having trouble with the words. Finding the words, thinking coherently. Spike pulls his tongue out and uses his fingers to pull my outer folds apart, licks a long path straight up, swirling the tip in a firm circle over me as his eyes meet mine. My inner muscles clench again. "Ah, oh, Go—" I cut myself off, tearing my free hand out of my hair and threading it through Spike's. "I need—"

"Know what you need, baby," he promises heatedly, leaning back down to begin moving his tongue quickly back and forth over my sensitive flesh in just _that_ way, that rhythm. Whether he knows, whether he's remembering like I'd hoped he might or it's just plain instinct, I don't know. Don't care. Not when two seconds later I feel him move, the pressure right at my entrance when two long fingers expertly thrust inside of me. "Bloody _fuck_ ," he hisses loudly, pulling his mouth away from me and staring at my face with glittering eyes as his fingers automatically start to pump in and out, curling slightly on the downstroke. "What kind of wanker forgets _this_ ," he all but growls, pulling his fingers almost all the way out and thrusting them slowly back in again. Too slowly.  
"Spike," I groan, a small whimper in the back of my throat. It's torture, what he's doing now. Hearing the desperation in my voice brings the smug smirk back to full force, quirking his lips as his tongue darts out to lick them clean. His hand starts to quicken its pace as he stares up at me. And then he ducks his head again, sucking my clit into his mouth, swirling his tongue over it in quick, velvety circles in time with the pumping of his fingers. And it's, _yes_ , it's just right. Perfect. Just the way he already knows I need it.

I feel my eyes roll back, my back arching off the bed. Muscle memory takes over, moving me the way it already knows, rolling my hips against his face and whimpering all kinds of nonsense as his movements get faster and faster. My muscles grow tighter, matching my grip in his hair, every nerve ending open and exposed and on fire.

Then the world explodes.

Or that's how it feels, anyway. My leg, the one I've wrapped around his neck to hold him place, is shaking violently. The hands still tangled in his hair go numb. My body trembles, every muscle melting to goo, sinking deeper into the mattress. My internal muscles pulse around the fingers still buried inside of me as Spike continues to run his tongue over me, waiting for me to come down. After a long moment he lifts his head, turning it to the side to press a kiss to my inner thigh, his eyes open and focused on me.

"Anyone ever tell you..." he begins quietly, tilting his head to press the cool edge of his cheek bone against the flushed skin of my leg. "That you taste bloody magnificent?"

I laugh. Just one, breathless little giggle and nod, letting my head drop down flat onto the mattress behind me. "Those were your…" a deep breath in, then out again "...exact words, actually."

Spike laughs, too, a low rumble that sears itself into my skin, making me ache for him all over again. I prop myself up onto my elbows so I can look down at him, turning my own head to the side. "How did you know?" I ask softly, not bothering or needing to explain myself.

Below me, his cheek still flush against my leg, the vampire gives a little shrug and closes his eyes. "Dunno," he answers simply, and it's the truth. "Just…" he trails off, looking up at me. "Just did."

That's something. No, I mean, not _exactly_ what I'd wanted to hear. But it's something. He might not know why or how he remembered how to touch me, but he _had_ remembered, and that alone does a little to keep the ever-present twisty stomach knots away for now. We lay like this for a little while longer until he finally pushes himself back to his knees, then slowly up to his feet. He gazes down at me, and I can see his eyes already flashing, hungry again as they rake over my naked body. I feel myself shiver in response, my body so attuned to his.

"Gotta say," he muses, eyes lingering on the curves of my breasts just a hare longer than they need to before meeting mine again. He tilts his head to the side. "Do wish there was a little more light down here."

I frown, thinking this over. If this is the same room I'm pretty sure I'd seen in that nightmare, then there should be like, torches...or something, somewhere. There'd been enough light then to fully illuminate the bed, and the area all around it. Not just the dim circle of candlelight we have now. I push myself up on shaky arms until I'm sitting at the edge of the bed, unsteady feet resting on top of one of the decorative rugs. I glance around, straining my eyes in the dim light to see. I know I'd seen torches in the dream, but I hadn't really paid attention to where. I hadn't even thought it was a real room back then, I don't think. And, ya know, there _had_ been other, more...interesting things to notice at the time.

And then I spot it. One big, lone, unlit torch, stuck into the wall just a few feet away from where I'm sitting.

"There," I say, pointing toward it, waiting for Spike's head to turn and follow my direction. He glances back at me and nods, then starts toward it, plucking it effortlessly out of it's holder and bringing it back over to our small ring of light. He lifts it over toward the candles and holds it over them, waiting for the fabric wrapped around it to catch fire. Immediately, the room fills with a bright, warm glow, and I watch as he carries it back over to it's position and fastens it to the wall again.

It's amazing, how much of a difference the one torch makes.

Spike must agree with me, because when he turns back toward me, his eyes go black. A renewed sense of lustiness crosses his features, a fresh flood of surging heat radiating down my spine, pooling in my stomach.

"Christ, you are gorgeous," he murmurs, and it's funny because he's pretty much echoing my thoughts exactly as I look at him. White blonde hair tousled from where my hands have pulled at it, lips swollen, his skin gleaming and marble-like. His jeans are still unbuttoned and unzipped from upstairs, resting low on his hips.

"Come here." It's my turn to command him, feeling a weird possessive, dominant surge roll through my blood, thrum in my veins, as I watch him obey me instantly, coming to a stop in front of me where I'm still sitting on the edge of the bed. I reach up and hook my hands into his waistband, finishing the job I'd started upstairs and yanking them down over his hips until they pool at his feet, letting my hands wander over the deep V at his hip bone and the muscles that ripple across his abdomen as he steps out of them.

And now we're even. Naked, bared to each other in a way that feels kind of impossibly vulnerable after what's already happened tonight. It reminds me of what he'd said earlier. That it's almost like the first time all over again. For him, anyway.

And a little for me, too.

As amazing as our first time had been, this is different. As passionate and primal and incredible as it was, it had been violent, too. Rough and hard, quick and dirty. And yeah, okay, at the time it had been the way it needed to be. And in the end I wouldn't trade it, that night. Wouldn't have wanted it any other way. Couldn't have wanted it another way at the time.

But things are so different now. I mean, besides me having an amnesiac vampire for a lover, besides the connection, even besides the claim. I didn't love him yet, back then. I mean, no, he didn't love me either but the bigger thing to me in this moment, what I'm thinking about as I trail my hands over him, as I let the fingers of my right hand close around him, is that _I_ didn't love _him_ then.

I have a chance to love him now.

Spike groans, drawing my eyes up to his face, watching as his eyes fall shut and his hips push further into my hands. I stroke my fingers over the length of him slowly, squeezing softly each time I reach the head and watching the tiny crease of pleasure furrow his brow. I can feel my own arousal, slick and wet between my thighs as I rub them together, fighting for friction.

And I have to wonder...what might happen if I love him. If I can love him with my body, and my eyes, the way I touch him. If I can show him that I love him.

If I can make him remember that he loves me.

And if I can make him remember that, maybe everything else'll just...flow.

I realize how simple it sounds. How totally Disney...every fairytale ever, where true love's kiss is the answer and everyone lives happily ever after. But this isn't a fairytale, even though we have more than enough monsters. I'm the Slayer. And it's totally, completely, entirely possible that a happily ever after just isn't in the cards for me. So, yeah, it's childish. And over-romanticized. And I don't have to remember any lessons from freshman psych to understand that it's desperation, not logic, that's making me think this way. Desperation and desire and that all-consuming, fiery need for him that's roaring back to the surface now that my body's had a chance to come down from before.

But there's just enough space left over in my childhood fantasy riddled brain for the logic here, too. Knowing thast he'd had those dreams. His nightmares. I already know that somehow, somewhere in the back of his mind, he recognizes this place. That something tactile had triggered him upstairs. If those nightmares had been a part of his subconscious, and not something more...prophecy-ish, then being down here, in this space, on this bed...it might trigger something _else_ in his subconscious. It's what Giles had told me.

One solid memory might bring back all the others.

I let go of him, relishing in the whimper it tears from his lips and feeling his own desire raging hotter for me as I do. His eyes open slowly, blinking down at me. Glazed and clouded and dark.

"Now who's the bloody tease," he grumbles, his hand immediately moving to replace mine, closing around his arousal and stroking in a slow rhythm that matches the one I'd been doing a moment ago. The sight is so...God, it's so majorly erotic that for a long second I just stare. Half forgetting my plan, the decision I'd made. This isn't the first time I've seen him touch himself, though the impact it has on me now is way stronger than the last time.

"I'm not teasing," I say finally, my voice a little hoarse from earlier. Turning my eyes up to his, holding contact there, I slide back onto the lacy comforter, pushing myself up until I'm resting against the pillows near the head of the bed. "Come here," I say again, but softer this time. No hint of the commanding tone in my voice I'd had the first time. Not demanding, but asking. "Please."

This time when he obeys me, drops onto the mattress and crawls toward me on his hands and knees, I know it's because he wants to. Not that he wouldn't have wanted to before, no, I know he had. Know how intimately he wants me now. But now as he comes to rest beside me, his body angled in toward mine, I ignore it. The connection. For the first time in months, for the first time since we'd discovered...well, any of it...I try and tune it out. No, not tune it out...overwhelm it. Influence it. Flood the little connective bridge between us with my emotions and push everything else out. It's sort of what Giles had been working with us on, before...but the opposite. Instead of trying to reign in my emotions and keep Spike from being influenced by them, I'm _trying_ to overwhelm him. Push out _his_ lust, _his_ desire, and focus on my own. Focus on my love for him. But I'm not using the claim, not my command over him.

This moment isn't about that.

I reach up and place my hand against his cheek, brushing my thumb over the angles, the shadows cast there by the torch light, and inhale deeply. The smell of sex and sweat and wax from the candles, smoke from his skin. "I love you," I whisper, turning my eyes up to his. They're still dark with lust, single minded lust, but I don't care now. "I...love you, and I know you don't...remember, but I—"

Spike blinks at me, and I swear, that same flicker of recognition happens. Just once, quick and sharp, over before I can _really_ see it, but I swear...it's there. "Buffy," he says softly, his body shifting a little closer to mine. That's it. Just my name. Not the way he normally says my name, but...well, I guess it is the way he normally says my name, as of today.

For a moment, a sharp pang of uncertainty blooms in my chest, and I know immediately it isn't mine. I re-focus, blocking it out, and push on.

"No," I say quickly, shaking my head and pressing the palm of my hand a little firmer into his cheek. I feel him lean into me, probably subconsciously, but still. Another swell of hope surges in my veins. "It's okay that you don't. Remember, I mean." I press my hands into his shoulders and push him down onto his back, press him down into the mattress and lean over him, ghosting my lips across his. "Mine's enough for both of us."

Spike opens his mouth to say something, maybe to deny me, to tell me we shouldn't be doing this. I don't let him, claiming his lips with mine before he can say anything, before he can think anything else. Whatever it is he's thinking, it doesn't matter. I don't hear it, don't feel it. Everything seems to go up in flames, consumed with this burning desire I have to love him, to _make love_ to him. I can still feel how hot, how wet I am for him, and I reach down between my legs to gather some of the wetness there, bringing my hand up and running it down his arousal. Another thing he'd taught me.

Spike's reaction is instant, and exactly what I'd been expecting. All traces of hesitancy, vanished. Gone. Poof, just like that. Moaning into my mouth, both of his hands fly to my hips to pull me across his lap, my hand still wrapped around him in between our bodies. "Let me," I whisper against his lips, my hand pumping him gently, hips straining toward him. "Let me make love to you, Spike."

Not that he _wouldn't_ let me. Not that he'd say no.

But I ask anyway, because it feels like the right thing to do.

"Yes," he says quickly, barely a beat passing before he nods against me, his forehead resting against mine as I lean further over him. " _God_ , yes."

I move my handup to brace against his chest, sliding forward as he slides down, positioning myself over him and sinking down onto him. I gasp, tossing my head back and digging my nails into his skin, muscles automatically spasming around him. His hands grip me harder as he groans, arching up into me. Then they relax and slide up and around, tracing little patterns down my spine.

"Buffy," he says my name reverently, making me turn my eyes back down to his. They're clearer now than they'd been moments ago. Still dark, still lusty, but less...distant. More focused. I smile sweetly down at him and nod, bringing my other hand up against his chest.

"I love you," I say again, using my hands as leverage to begin moving, rocking my hips against his. Pulling myself up and off of him, lowering myself slowly back down. Up, then down. Over and over again. Slowly, a smooth, constant rhythm. We stare at each other, our eyes burning into one another's. His are wide as they watch me moving over him, warm and tender and awed. And a softness that hasn't been there, not in the last twenty-four hours. The sparkling azure mirroring mine. They have to be mirroring mine.

Either that, or…

Or it's working.

I lean forward and kiss him hungrily, inhaling his scent, sliding my hands up from his chest to his neck, up to his face. Infusing every touch, every movement, every sweep of my tongue with as much passion and feeling and power as I can.

"I love you," I whisper again, urgently against his mouth, speeding up the movement of my hips. Pushing my hands into the pillow on either side of his head for more leverage, my eyes starting to burn, the tears I thought I'd left upstairs surging forward again. "Spike." His name is a prayer, a whispered plea on my lips as the fire burns higher, the rocking of our hips grows faster. He's arching up into me now, meeting every movement of mine with one of his own, striking at the little bundle of nerves deep inside me each time. I gasp, crying out and his arms wrap around me, forearms banding around my waist. Clutching me to him, pressing my lips more firmly to his. So hard, such bruising force, that when my teeth catch on the swell of my bottom lip I hardly notice. Until the blood.

I think I taste it first, but I'm not sure. He reacts so quickly, too quickly for me to think, a low, dangerous growl torn from his throat before his arms vanish from around me, hands coming to rest against my rib cage. And he flips us over. Slipping out of my heat for just a moment, just long enough for me to miss him before he nudges my knees apart and thrusts back inside. And in the space of time it's taken us to flip around, for him to cover my body with his and slam my back down into the mattress— he's vamped out. Feral, glowing eyes burning down into mine, tongue flicking out to taste the blood pooling along my bottom lip. Then he pulls back suddenly, his demon's gaze widening as it takes me in.

Again, it's there. Again, the flicker of recognition, of understanding. Stronger this time. Lasting longer. I see it, and I _know_ I do this time.

And it hits me. With all the subtlety and force of a rockslide. A stampede. A rumbling avalanche.

Blood. The human blood he'd been drinking, back at Giles's. It had been working. It had helped.

So what about Slayer's blood?

 _My_ blood.

My eyes widen as I gaze up into his demon visage, hands gripping his shoulders, nails biting into his skin.

And I don't know for sure if it'll work. If it's even a smart idea. It only worked the first time around because Spike and I had loved each other. he'd loved me, and that was the only reason I survived the claim in the first place. Does he recognize me enough now to risk it? Feel enough for me?

I only have enough time to wonder if trying to block out the connection was a mistake before I'm reaching up and gripping the back of his head, twisting my head to the side and pulling him down against me. There's the familiar stinging pain of his fangs as they pierce my skin, and I don't know if they've pierced the original marks or not. Can't tell through the pain, the pounding of my pulse so loud in my ears that it drowns out everything else. Throbbing in my jugular, thrumming against his lips when the close over the wound and he begins to drink from me. The same long, steady draws as the last time.

But this bite isn't sexual.

Isn't about pleasure, even as his body continues to thrust inside of mine. Or about pain, even though it hurts. It's about something else all together.

I close my eyes, running my hands in soothing strokes over his neck repeatedly, whispering hushed, sweet words. That I love him. That this is alright. I'm not willing to pull him away from me, to make him stop. I don't want him to stop. Not until he gets what he needs from me.

And I trust him. Trust him not to drain me, not to kill me. Not to take _more_ than he needs.

Just as I'm starting to fade out, as things are starting to go dark and fuzzy around the edges and my fingers start to tingle with the beginnings of numbness, Spike pulls away from my neck with a wild, unneeded gasp. Tearing his fangs from my throat, rolling away from me, over onto his back. It hurts, too, but I'm too tired to cry out this time. I sigh, letting my eyes close, my gooey muscles sink down into the mattress. So tired. Sleepy.

And then I'm being shaken, cool, strong hands at my shoulders. My name being called.

"Buffy." Softly, distantly at first. Then again, stronger, louder this time. "Buffy?" Another firm shake, and my eyes snap open. Spike. My vampire, hovering over me. His face is a little fuzzy but I'd know it anywhere, even with the fog. His hands are on my face, stroking it softly. I blink up at him, my eyes feeling very heavy. He leans further over me, staring down at me with wide, indigo eyes. His face is human again, I realize slowly.

And his eyes...they look different. Through my blurred vision, the fuzziness around it, I can see that they look...different. I just can't tell what kind of different. Open and wide with worry now as he leans over me, pulling me up into his arms.

"Buffy, look at me," he says, tilting my face toward him, patting my cheek gently. Like he's trying to wake me up. I try to focus on him, but everything's still a little blurry. My lashes keep fluttering, and everything feels so heavy. My fingers still tingling.

"Spike?" I say softly, my voice small, hollow in my ears. There's a dull pounding in my ears. Slow, thudding. My heart beat, I think. So that's of the good. I can hear it, feel it. It's slow, but strong. I know I've lost a lot of blood. That I've let him take a lot of blood. But not enough to...no, not too much. I fight to keep my eyes open, focus them on the face in front of me.

Spike nods and lifts me further into his arms, warm and strong across my back. He smiles down at me, and his eyes are warm. His lashes are wet.

"'S me," he says softly, brushing the pad of his thumb over my cheek. He leans down, presses his lips to mine. "Keep your eyes open, sweetheart." And again, a longer, lingering kiss. This one feels more urgent. My fingers are numb, and this time I can taste the coppery flavor of blood. I feel my lashes flutter lazily. But something he's said hits me. Something sticks.

 _Sweetheart_.

That's it.

I sink deeper into his arms, and it's the last thing I hear before things finally do go dark, his voice ringing sweetly in my ears as they do.


	40. Chapter 39

It's the deja-ist of vu's, waking up like this. Waking up in Spike's crypt, in the dark, the air around me is that weird, comforting mix of must and smoke. Familiar but not. My head is pounding, all with the fog and the cotton stuffed and I'm having more trouble than I think I should be remembering how I got here. Why I came here. Why it feels like it's wonky to be waking up in Spike's crypt at all. And there's a weird noise, too. A sort of clicking sound.

 _Oh._

My teeth. I'm shivering.

There's cold sweat running down my back, a sheen of it over my forehead. I'm incredibly stiff, and still a little sluggish, and cold. The arms wrapped around me, though…those feel warm. There's sweat Warm against my chilly skin with what has to be borrowed heat.

Spike.

I suck in a sudden, deep breath when I remember. It comes in flashes at first, just bits and pieces. And then everything tumbles back all at once. The crypt, the bed, the basement room. The decision I'd made. Flooding the connection, feeling him, surrounding him.

The bite. My blood. So _much_ of my blood.

 _Spike._

I open my eyes. Try to, at least. It's harder than I expect it to be, my eyelids way freakishly heavy. And everything kind of hurts. Not… _hurts_ hurts, but just feels…achey. Like I've been stuck in the same position for a really long time.

I shift in the arms around me, move as much as I can in the strong arms wrapped so tightly around my waist I almost can't breathe at all. My arms are already tucked up beneath me, my hands pressing against what has to be Spike's chest. It's still a little hard to see, even with my eyes open. The torch and candles have long burned out and the only light filtering into the room at all is the dim rays of sunlight filtering into the upper room and down through the open hatch.

I don't know if the vampire's sleeping or awake. Either way, I can feel a strong sense of anxiety coming from him. But I can't tell if its normal anxiety, the same kind I might have felt from him before all of this happened, or if it's something else. Something more. If it's the kind of anxiety that comes from worry, concern. Love.

 _I have to find out if it worked._

I shift again and push my hands against him slightly, murmuring something that comes out more a strained mewel than an actual word. I don't know if I'm trying to wake him up, or let him know _I'm_ awake, or if I'm just trying to see…see if it worked. But as soon as I move, as soon as the little whimper leaves my lips, Spike's arms loosen from around my waist and I feel him push me gently over onto my back.

And then he's leaning over me, running his hands hurriedly over every inch of my body. Hasty, quick, like he's looking for something, dusting my forehead and cheeks and shoulders with rapid-fire kisses. "God, Buffy," he's saying my name like it's a plea. An urgent whisper, loud in the darkness surrounding us. "Buffy, luv," he says again, hands on my face now, brushing tangled, sweat soaked hair back away from my forehead. I blink up at him, clearing the rest of the sleepiness away. I can just barely make out his face, the sharp angles of his cheeks and dark brows drawn together as he leans over me in the blackness. "Come on, baby," he whispers, a little louder this time. "Talk to me."

I swallow hard, my throat feeling super dry and scratchy. My head is still pounding and my stomach is still twisting itself into knots, but again, I don't know if it's mine or his. I still can't see his eyes. Not really. Not enough to know if it's worked or not.

I clear my throat and try to speak, coughing a little as I do. My voice is low, but clear enough. "How long have I been—"

"Too long," Spike interjects quickly, leaning down to brush his lips across my forehead again. And then the twisty knots in my gut suddenly vanish all together, like they were never there at all. Replaced by completely blinding, overwhelming relief. It pours over me in all directions, pushing everything out. I can't focus on anything except for the sound of Spike's voice. "Too… _Christ_ , pet," he breathes, pulling back to look down into my face again. His voice is thick with urgency. "Too bloody long."

I wish I could see his eyes better. _Really_ see them. Things are still a little blurry, and with the it being still way too dark, I can't see much more than the dim glint reflected in 1the irises that just look black.

"Umm," I clear my throat again, forcing the rest of the scratchiness out. "How long is _too_ long?" By the soreness in my back, the tight knots in my shoulders, I'm willing to bet it's been more than few hours this time.

Spike leans further over me, propping himself up beside me on his elbow, threading his right hand up into the tangles of my hair and brushing his fingers against my throat. His other hand is rubbing slow, soothing circles into my bare stomach, cool fingers wedged between my skin and the blanket still covering me.

"Dunno exactly," he says, and I can see him shaking his head. "A day, day and a half."

 _Whoa._

I blink up at him, clearing the rest of the fogginess out of my eyes. A day. A whole day. No wonder he'd felt all that mind numbing relieved. But I still can't tell, can't get a good read on the whether or not it's the relief of my Spike, the one he'd been a week ago. Or if it's just...if he's still the same vampire I'd lain down with yesterday.

"Does anyone know what happened?" I ask, shifting slightly again, trying to get an even better look at his face. Only a little aware that the question I've asked doesn't make a lot of sense.

But Spike nods anyway, his fingers still feather light brushing against my hair. He leans down again, impulsively pressing a flurry of kisses to my forehead, my nose, one quick one against my lips. "Giles came 'round lookin' for you when we didn't go back to his place. Figured we'd be here." He pauses, making a face. "I didn't...didn't tell him everythin', just that you were resting. I didn't know..." He raises his hand up from my throat and brushes my hair back from my head again, blinking down at me. "Bloody hell, was beginnin' to think—"

"I wouldn't wake up?" I ask softly, lifting weak, jello-y hands up to press against his shoulders and feeling the soft, familiar cotton beneath my hands. Spike's dressed, I realize now. Wearing one of his signature black t-shirts, and if I had to guess, a pair of tight fitting black jeans, too.

Not the blue shirt he'd been wearing the other night. Not the shirt I'd taken off him.

I frown, trying to remember if this is a clue. If I'd told him where his clothes were, or if that's something he would have had to remember on his own.

 _No._

No, I'd set those pairs of clothes out on the coffin upstairs. He could've just grabbed a pair of those.

I'm sure by now Spike's noticed my confusion, the knots in my belly. Still not as strong as the thrumming relief from him, but getting stronger by the second. I need to see his eyes.

"Somethin' like that," he answers my question in a whisper, his voice catching. In the darkness, I can see him swallow and nod. "Yeah." He leans down and steals another hard, urgent kiss from my lips. I take the opportunity to glide my trembly hands up to grip the sides of his face, sweeping my thumbs across his cheekbones and pulling back to stare up at him. My nose touches his, straining my sight in the dark to see.

And suddenly, his face is clear to me. Even in the blackness, even without almost any light, I can see his eyes now.

They're soft, and warm. That little bit of gentle awe there, too. There's so much in them, pouring into me, that it almost steals the air from my lungs. His lashes are just like I remember last seeing them. Long, dark against the pale skin, and damp. He has slight red circles beneath them that I hadn't been able to see before.

Like he's been crying.

"Your eyes," I breathe, sweeping a shaking thumb across the slightly swollen skin beneath them, feeling the wetness still clinging to the long lower lashes.

Spike lifts his hand away from my hair and grips my wrist in his, pulling it away from his face. Not hard. Everything about the way he's touching me, looking at me, is gentle. "Not a sodding word about it, alright?" His voice is low, strained. Like he's working hard to control it. And even I know, looking at him, that he's misunderstood what I'd meant. His grip on my wrist tightens a little, bringing my knuckles up against his lips. There's a quick surge of frustration I can feel through the calm. "Scared me, you did." A long pause and he shakes his head, and his eyes are wide and warm and... _his_. I think they're his. "I thought…" he trails off, closing his eyes. Trying I think to hide this vulnerability from me, but failing. The swell of relief shifts, turning to something that feels an awful lot like guilt. Or maybe shame. I can feel it as acutely as if it were my own.

If possible, the connection feels stronger now than it ever did before. I wonder how much of that has to do with letting him drink from me.

Spike's eyes open again, and I can see so clearly now that they're wet, filling with tears. "I almost…" His voice breaks, and my chest tightens, heart clenching.

"But you didn't," I say quickly, pulling my hand out of his and pressing both of them flat against his cheeks, forcing him to look at me. In the darkness, his eyes flash. Hot, gripping anger suddenly forcing out everything else. I don't think this is directed at me, though. It feels more violent.

Self-loathing.

"Yeah?" He asks me, his voice hard. But he doesn't pull my hands away this time. "Woulda been so bloody easy. Genius plan you had, luv. Right _brilliant_." He pauses, shaking his head again, and then, as suddenly as it had popped up, the anger vanishes. My vampire melts into me, lets his weight drop down onto his elbow, lets his head drop into the crook of my neck and inhales deeply. His shoulders are shaking.

My hands shift automatically to the back of his neck, stroking my fingers over the smooth skin there softly. The same way I had hours ago, a day ago, when he'd bitten me. I think it's him this time that's overwhelming the connection. I've never felt it this strongly, never felt so _exactly_ what he's feeling. All the little bits and pieces, the mix of emotions. How they all seem to be woven together, completely inseparable. Relief, bitterness, anger, relief again. And something else. Something so incredibly strong that I'm actually having the most trouble placing it. Big and pulsing and so, so _warm_. It's everywhere. Threading it's way through my chest, into my gut, covering every inch of my bare skin in this living, tingling, pulsating…glow.

"Fuck," Spike murmurs into my skin, the words slightly muffled. "Another few minutes and—" He cuts himself off, and another wave rolls across my skin, prickling it in delicious little goose bumps as it goes.

And, _oh_. I recognize it. I _know_ this feeling, could never forget it. It's been over a week since I've felt this particular kind of warmth, but I'd know it anywhere. It could be years and I'd still know it.

I gasp, shifting down, grabbing Spike's face in between my hands again and pulling him away from my throat. The question is out in a rush, words tumbling wildly passed my lips before I can think.

"Did it work?" I ask, searching his eyes with mine. Asking a question I think I already know the answer to, but I need to _hear_ it. Need to hear it from him. Have to know for sure.

Spike just blinks down at me, brow furrowed. Like he has no idea what I'm talking about. "What?" he asks, and I can feel the knots tightening again, my heart contracting and clenching up in my chest.

I take a deep, shaky breath and exhale slowly, never taking my eyes off his.

And I know now, looking at him. It did. It worked. It had to have. He looks confused by my question, sure. Looking down at me a little bit like he thinks I've lost my mind. But that's not the only thing in his eyes now. No.

 _He knows me._

"Do you remember me?" I ask, clarifying my question from before, watching as the crease between his eyebrows smoothes over and understanding washes over his face.

"Do I…" I watch as he plays through what I've just asked him, shaking his head, a soft swell of frustration rising up between us. He pushes himself up onto his hands, still leaning over me but far enough away that he can look down fully into my face. His eyes search mine, stormy and dark. "Jesus, Slayer, I could've bloody _killed_ you," he whisper shouts, eyes narrowing down at me. I can feel his hands digging into the mattress on either side of me. "Almost drained you fucking _dry_. And here you are, still all preoccupied with my post-chip memory bank?"

I frown up at him, my own brow furrowing and feeling my cheeks flush hot in irritation. Of course I'm still… _preoccupied_ with that. Why wouldn't I be? God, that had been the whole stupid point of almost letting him _kill me_ in the first place.

I open my mouth to tell him this, all of this, and then it hits me. What he's just said, the way he's said it. Something I haven't heard him say in a week.

I tilt my head to the side on the pillow, narrowing my eyes up at the vampire above me. "You called me Slayer," I point out quietly.

Spike doesn't miss a beat.

"Yeah," he says tersely, glaring down at me. Completely blowing past the significance I've just pointed out. "I did. 'S who you are, especially when you're bein' _especially_ bloody stupid. All act first, think later. Ya know, I've half a mind to—"

I cut him off. Reach my jello-y arms up and wrap them tight around his neck, yank his lips down to mine. Claiming his mouth in one of those searing, bone-melty kiss of my own. I inhale him, my eyes stinging, the pressure of my lips against his working to cut off the sob scratching at the back of my throat.

Because it worked. Yes, _God_ , it worked. It's all I can think, the only words in my head, the tingling flood of warmth making my toes curl as I continue to drink him in. Blood and smoke and whiskey, exactly the way he should taste. The way my Spike tastes.

It's been a day. One day. A little over 24 hours with my amnesia riddled vampire. A week since Christmas. Since I've really held him, kissed him, touched him. A week, and it feels like years.

"God," I breathe, sniffling and slowly pulling away from him, letting my head drop down into the pillow so I can look up in his eyes. I just want to keep looking at his eyes.

All the anger from a moment ago has melted away, replaced with that look. That all consuming, burning, I-live-in-the-dark-and-you're-the-sun look. Love. That's what it is.

I sigh, breath catching, trailing my hands down from his face to the column of his throat. Then further down, to his shoulders. I feel like any second I could cry. Like, _cry_ cry. Happy tears, but still, not exactly the most Slayery reaction to have. But this relief is so strong, so singular. Overwhelming to the point where tears feel like the most natural thing in the world. I take another deep breath, letting the air out in a light, airy laugh.

 _It's over._

"I missed you," I whisper, kneading the muscles of his shoulders once before trailing my hands down his arms.

Spike just shakes his head, his hands finding their way back to my face. "Missed me?" He asks, his thumbs brushing under my eyes, over my cheeks, taking little drops of salty tears with them as they do. "'S funny. Feels to me like Christmas was just a day ago."

The words have my chest clenching again, though I don't know why. Maybe because that week…that horrible, awful week, had been one of the longest of my entire life. One of the worst. And to him, it never even happened. Like that week of hell had never existed at all.

Maybe it's better this way.

Still, I shake my head, wrapping my fingers around his biceps. Preparing to explain to him everything that's happened. "But it wasn't," I say slowly, softly. "You were out…" I trail off, closing my eyes for a moment and swallowing against the lump in my throat. "You were in a coma, Spike." I blink my eyes open again, and I can feel that they're wet again. "For a _week_."

But Spike doesn't look surprised. There's no shock on his face, none passing between us. He just nods and offers me a small, strained smile.

"Know it, luv," he says, moving his hands away from my face. He slides his arm up beneath my neck to prop my cheek on his bicep, shifting down to lay beside me. "Watcher boy filled me in on…all that." He grimaces, a pained expression shadowing his features. "Somethin' about the old man thinkin' the whole thing was his fault in the first place." He leans his head down onto his shoulder, softly rubbing the tip of his nose against mine. "Not too happy with you, I might add, though I'm likely to blame for that." He pauses, exhales and shifts away from me again. "Should be by in a bit to—"

"God," I say suddenly, cutting him off mid-thought and smacking him hard in the shoulder. Remembering now, for the first time in a week, how ridiculously angry I am at Spike for putting us through all of this. "You big idiot."

I hit him again.

"Bloody hell," he shouts, catching my right hand in his left, tangling his fingers with mine and deeply frowning at me. "What'd you do that for?"

Oh, like it isn't obvious.

I don't pull my hand away from his, because even though I remember now that I'm mad at him, I also don't want to give up any skin to skin contact with him. With my vampire.

My Spike.

"None of this would have happened if you hadn't been all with the _get the chip out_ and the _I don't care how you do it, just do it_." I squeeze his hand hard, watching the crease between his brow show up again. "Idiot."

Spike narrows his eyes at me. "Yeah?" He asks, eyebrows raising high. "This from the girl who offered her throat up like a sodding chalice not one day ago?"

I raise my eyebrows in return. "It worked, didn't it?" I ask, not willing to admit that he might have a teeny tiny point there.

His eyes flash angrily, and some of the frustration that had disappeared a moment ago comes flooding back. "You couldn'a known that."

Again, another pretty decent point.

Still.

"It worked," I say simply, dismissively. Folding our joined hands down into the blanket between our bodies. "That's all that matters."

Because to me, it is.

"No," he says, drawing the word out. "It isn't all that bloody matters—"

"It is," I insist, cutting him off and squeezing his hand again. I sigh, dropping my voice down lower. More quiet. "Right now, it is. You're all de-chipped and memory-full. And see me?" I twist my head to the side, pressing a soft kiss to the place his bicep is partially covered by black cotton. "All awake and with the not being dead."

But I can see it on his face, in the set of his lips and the way those sparkling eyes are narrowed on me. He isn't about to let this go.

"That might be true, luv," he agrees, and I can hear the "but" coming a mile away. "But we need to talk about what the buggering hell you were thinkin'."

"I was _thinking_ it would work," I tell him simply, and I'm not sure if it's a lie or not. I don't know, can't remember, if I really thought it would work or if I was just desperate. Either way, it doesn't matter. It _worked_. End of vampire-with-amnesia story as far as I'm concerned.

Spike opens his mouth to say something, but I don't let him. "Did you say something about Giles being here soon?" I ask hurriedly, going for a subject change, looking up at Spike through my lashes.

The vampire looks down at me with an expression that tells me he knows exactly what I'm doing. But I guess he's willing to let it go for now, because after a long moment he just sighs and nods his head.

"Yeah," he says quietly, laying his head back down beside mine. "Supposed to pop by to check in, told him you'd be awake by now." A short pause, his eyes twinkling in the dim light. "Told him to bring nibbles for you, too." I raise my eyebrows at him, and gives a little half shrug, as much of a shrug as he can manage, anyway, and his lips curve up into a smirk. "Was feelin' optimistic."

And as if on cue, my stomach growls. Loudly.

I smile at him sheepishly. "Optimism is definitely of the good," I say, shifting a little closer to him. "I am pretty hungry."

The smirk on Spike's lips turns sardonic, and he raises his scarred eyebrow at me. "Funny how massive blood loss'll do that to you humans."

 _Oh, boy._

"Spike," I groan, rolling my eyes.

"Buffy," he says sternly.

So much for being willing to let it go.

"Can't I just be here," I whine softly, curving myself against him. I angle my head down so I can press a little trail of kisses up his throat. "With the you and the me and the basking?"

He swallows, Adam's Apple moving a little under the pressure of my mouth. I scoot a little closer to him, feel when his hand untangles itself from mine and drops to scoop around my waist, tug my body against his. My muscles are still all gooey, and they melt into him so easily.

"We need to talk about this," he says again, but there's less resolve in it. More smooth, purring warmth and less urgency.

My lips reach his chin.

"Talk later." I press my lips to the corner of his mouth. "Kiss now."

"Stubborn bint," Spike says huskily, a split second before tilting his head down and covering my mouth with his. Sweeping his tongue across the seam of my lips, coaxing them to open up for him. I kiss him back for a long moment. Slowly, sweetly. No rush or urgency or manic frenzy this time.

"I love you," I whisper softly, pulling away from his mouth so I can see his eyes again. One more time. See that soft, subtle glint of astonishment there when he hears the words this time.

Spike just looks at me for a minute before he nods and whispers "I love you" back to me.

And the rush of warmth that rockets straight into my chest, blooming and swirling and spreading until it reaches the roots of my hair, the tips of my toes, makes the air in my lungs catch.

And I know I'm not completely off the hook. Know there's so much we have to talk about, so many things now we have to deal with, and figure out. And I know that anger I'd felt from him earlier will be back, too. But it was worth it.

Every risk, _any_ risk, would have been worth it for this moment right here.

We lay in bed together for a little while. Just kissing, just holding onto one another. For as desperately as it seems we need to feel each other, though, we don't take it any further. I don't ask him to, and he never tries. Maybe because despite how much better I'm already feeling, I'm still weak. Maybe because it doesn't seem like the most important thing right now.

Or maybe, and I thin this is probably the truth, it's because we both know Giles is supposed to be coming around soon. And it's one thing to have Spike tell him that I'm, ya know, sleeping in his bed or something. Sort of another if Giles were to actually see us in bed, in Spike's bed, together.

But it's so nice. So safe. Down in the dark, cavernous room, away from everything. Responsibilities and people and real life. If I could, I might choose to stay down here for another day or two. Keep Spike here with me, keep this secret space all to our ourselves.

After a little while, though, we don't have much choice but to get up and deal with the real world. All the things I've been avoiding, putting off for the last week. My family. My Slaying. Whatever fresh out of the box Big Bad we have to be dealing with.

So we get up and head upstairs, into the main space of the crypt. My arms and legs are still a little shaky, especially when I put too much weight on them, so I let Spike help me. Let him carry me up the ladder, let him help me get dressed, his hands incredibly reverent and gentle with me throughout. Every once in a while, I get a fresh pang of guilt from him. When he catches me wobbling, when his eyes land on the fresh bite mark on my neck. I push the guilt back, using the same trick I had the other night and flooding the bridge between us with warmth each time, until finally, _finally_ , that's all there is.

I finish pulling the clean t-shirt up and over my head, yanking my hair back into a decent looking pony tail, just in time for the crypt door to open and Giles to step inside.

I don't miss the slightly exasperated look he gives me, grey eyes sweeping down and back up my makeshift outfit before he shakes his head, placing a bag of food down on the sarcophagus beside me.

I feel my cheeks heat up, knowing what it looks like. And knowing that it _is_ exactly what it looks like.

My clothes had been, unfortunately, pretty much with the ruined. Both my pants and blouse from the other night torn at the seams and just generally all around un-wearable. So I'm wearing Spike's clothes now. Black on black, soft cotton t-shirt and faded jeans.

And yeah, they look about as morning after, walk of shamey as you'd think. But if Giles feels the need to comment on my clothes, or my more than definitely haggard appearance, he doesn't. Just sets the food down and asks meif I'm feeling properly _rested_ now.

But before I have the chance to answer, Spike steps forward and asks if he can speak with him, indicating for me to start eating.

So I'm watching them now from my perch on top of the stone coffin beside Spike's fridge as he and my Watcher discuss something in low tones, picking absently at the food Giles has brought for me, alternating between eating the sandwich and taking small sips of the water bottle. I can't hear exactly what it is they're saying, but when Giles's eyes suddenly go comically wide, a little jolt of panic shooting down my spine as Spike puts two hands out in front of him, I think I get the picture.

I swallow the bite of sandwich I've just taken and go to hop down off the stone, but the two men stop me with a look. I freeze, hands digging into the edge of the sarcophagus, blinking at them with wide eyes.

"Good lord," Giles breathes, reaching up and yanking his glasses off as he stares at me. "You could've been _killed_."

"Don't waste your breath, Rupert," Spike says breezily, eyeing me, tilting his head back as he folds his arms up over his chest. "Already tried that."

But Giles doesn't look like he's listening. He crosses the empty space of the crypt and comes to a stop right in front of me, tosses his glasses down and reaches his hands out. He grips me tightly around my shoulders.

"What the bloody _hell_ were you thinking?" He asks, shaking me once, hard. Harder than I would've guessed he could.

From behind us, Spike gives a low, dark chuckle. "Tried that, too."

I shoot a narrow eyed glare his direction, then turn back to my Watcher. His eyes are still impossibly wide, but it's not anger I see there. It's fear. I can practically feel it, the way it's hammering in his pulse. The same way I'd felt it coming off Travers and his gang back in the Magic Box before Christmas.

"Giles," I start to say, trying to calm him down, but he cuts me off with a shake of his head. His hands squeezing me a little tighter.

"Do you have any idea how incredibly dangerous that was?" Shakes me again. "How reckless?"

He's doing that thing again. Talking to me like I'm a child, scolding me for making a decision that has nothing to do with him. I frown at him, feeling my cheeks flush again.

"Giles, please," I say, searching his eyes with mine. "It worked, and I'm _fine_."

His eyes flash. "You were _lucky_ ," he counters, his voice very low.

And I realize he's right. I _had_ been lucky. I mean, in the moment, I hadn't even thought twice about it. Had just…done it. Risked it. And yeah, it had worked, but both Spike and Giles are right to be angry with me. It was risky, and there hadn't been any guarantee it would work at all.

But it had. It _had_ worked, and Spike is Spike again. And I'm having trouble understanding why we're focusing on what could have happened rather than what _actually_ did.

But I don't want to spend any more time talking about how stupid and reckless I'd been, so arguing the point seems pretty big with the useless right now. There are other, bigger, more Initiativey things we need to be dealing with now.

So I nod my head and sigh, keeping my eyes glued to Giles. "I know," I say quietly, only half meaning it. "I'm sorry."

I wait for him to say something else. To scold me some more. But he doesn't. Instead, he lets go of my shoulders and wraps his arms around me, pulling me into an awkward, too-tight hug.

My eyes meet Spike's from over his shoulder, and he's smirking at me. I narrow my eyes at him again. Out for a day, one day, and already my vampire and my Watcher are all in cahootz.

"Right," Giles says finally, letting go of me and stepping backward. He looks away from me, grabbing up his glasses and putting them back on. I watch him as he takes a deep breath and clears his throat.

Whatever moment's just passed between us is definitely over now.

"Now that Spike's memories appear to be back, and you're…" his eyes drift to mine, scanning my face. "…awake, there are some pressing matters to be dealt with."

"The Initiative," I supply for him, picking the water bottle back up and tilting it to my lips.

Giles nods, putting his hands on his hips. "Yes. If they are indeed back, and it's sounding more and more like that's the case, we need to figure out why." He glances toward Spike now, gesturing absently with one hand. "What they're doing here, what it is they want."

From the other end of the crypt, Spike snorts. Both Giles and I turn to look at him.

He shrugs, pushing himself off the stone wall. "'S simple, yeah?"

I frown at him, a crease forming between my brows. "How you figure?" I ask, drawing his eyes up to mine.

I watch as he crosses the space toward where I'm sitting, coming to a stop beside Giles.

"Well if it is those pooftery soldier boys again, stands to reason what they're here for." He pauses, glancing back and forth between Giles and I. When neither of us make a move to respond, to fill in the gap he obviously thinks he's left open, he sighs and gestures toward himself. "Be back to finish the job, wouldn't they?"

It's the first thing I'd thought, and probably something I'd guess had been tossed around between the two of them long before they'd ever brought me into the loop. And I guess it would make sense, if that were the case.

 _But._ But…they hadn't shot Spike that night in the cemetery. They'd shot _me_. I point this out to him, and I can see the wheels turning in his head as he thinks it over. Like he's forgotten about that already. "It's possible, of course," Giles tell him, moving across the crypt, starting to pace slightly. "But Buffy's right. We still don't know who their target was the other night." He turns back around to face us, gesturing between the vampire and myself. "If it was actually Buffy they were aiming for, or if they simply…miss fired."

The way he says it makes me feel like that's not what he thinks happened. And it's weird, but I kind of feel the same way. I mean, no, it's not like the Initiative had been the most stellar marksmen last year by any means. But I'm having a hard time believing they'd risk hitting a human, even a not-so-civilian like me, if they didn't have the clear shot they were looking for. Besides that, Spike is taller than me.

And that tranquilizer dart had hit me square in the back.

"How do we find that out?" I ask, still halfway working through the thoughts in my head, wondering if they would have set themselves up in the same underground lab as before or if they would have found a new place. "If it's me or Spike they're jonesing for?"

"Well," Giles says slowly, bringing my attention back to him. "You do have a,a…connection to The Initiative."

Except I don't. Not anymore.

For more reasons than one.

I frown at the older man, shaking my head. "Riley quit the Initiative, Giles," I remind him tersely, not liking at all where this is going.

"Doesn't matter, pet," Spike steps in, moving closer to me. I look at him as he cocks his head to the side. "Once a government wanker, always a government wanker."

And it's at this point that I think I figure it out. This is what the two of them had talked about before, before Christmas and the chip and the coma and the amnesia. That we should go to Riley for answers.

They've talked about this before.

I feel my expression darken, looking back and forth between the two of them. "No," I say, jaw clenching. "It was pulling teeth just to get him to hear Graham out when his heart was going all wonky." I shake my head again. "He doesn't have anything to do with them anymore."

I don't know why this matters to me, why it feels so important. But it does.

"That was months ago," Spike reminds me, the muscle in his own jaw straining. "You don't think things might've changed a bit after the two of you split?"

I take a deep breath in and exhale through my nose, shaking my head. "I wasn't the reason he quit the first time around."

Spike's eyes flash, and he tilts his chin up. "Weren't you?"

"What are you saying?" I ask, honestly a little confused. Why the two of them are so stuck on the Riley-being-involved train, and what good they think it's going to do for me to…contact him, or whatever, either way.

Spike steps a little closer to me and lowers his voice. "Just that you don't just pick up and leave after somethin' like that." He raises his eyebrows meaningfully. "White bread was in deep before you. Not the sort of thing you just let go."

I stare at him, searching his eyes as he reaches out and lays a hand over my knee, squeezing gently. The frustration I'd felt so hotly a moment ago starting to fade, going fuzzy around the edges. I wonder for just a second if he's manipulating the connection again, but I still don't know if he even knows how to do that, let alone if he would if he could.

"Do you happen to know Riley's current whereabouts?" Giles asks suddenly, interrupting the moment between us. I turn to look at him, and so does Spike, though the vampire keeps his hand firm on my knee.

"That'd be the other issue," I say, sighing, rolling my stiff shoulders back. "Even if I thought he was involved, or thought he might help, or…whatever. No." I shake my head. "I have no clue."

"Can you find out?" Giles presses, folding his arms across his chest.

I frown deeper. "I don't even know where to start, Giles. I haven't seen him around at all, not since…" I trail off, wondering a little dimly why it is that the barest mention of Angel inspires such huge, crushing jealousy from Spike and the consistent back and forth on Riley does practically nothing. "For all I know he could be on the other side of the planet."

Spike nods, squeezing my leg once more before dropping his hand away and turning toward Giles. "I can look into it, too," he offers, planting his hands on his hips, gesturing with his head toward the general direction of outside. "Hit the demon bars. Check in at Willy's, see if any of his regulars have turned up missin'."

 _Let's rewind that._

I gape at the vampire in front of me, blinking dumbly. "You're joking, right?"

Spike sighs, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. "Slayer—"

"Okay, no," I say quickly, sliding down off the stone and landing on still slightly shaky legs. "Big with the no." I reach for him, grabbing him around the arm and turning him back to face me. "There's no _way_ I'm letting you go out there alone. Not until we find out which one of us is being hunted." There's a pause as we stare at each other. I keep my hold on his arm and turn back toward Giles. "I'll go—"

"Oh, _right_ ," Spike drawls, pulling his arm out my grip and stepping away from me. "Cause that makes a lot of bloody sense." I watch as he crosses his arms, cocking his head to the side." And what if it's you they're after?"

I glare at him, a fierce way of protective possession welling down in my stomach. "I can take care of myself."

"Yeah?" Spike's eyebrows raise, eyes widening for just a moment before he immediately narrows them again. "So can I, now." He places two fingers against his temple and taps once. "No more bug zapper, remember?"

I step directly into his personal space, planting my hands on my hips and staring up at him. I can feel the strain this is putting on the connection, the anger flowing between us. Fierce and strong and protective.

"If you're going," I say slowly, purposefully. "I'm going with you."

Spike meets me halfway, practically towering over me in my bare feet. "No, you're bloody well not."

"That's enough," Giles interrupts us, cutting through the tense waves pulsing back and forth between my vampire and I. "Buffy, you're in no condition to be patrolling yet." Spike waggles his eyebrows at me, a smug smirk curving his lips. "And Spike," Giles continues, and I feel my own lips twitch as the smirk vanishes. "If you're in that much of a hurry to have a brand new chip shoved into your brain, then perhaps we shouldn't have gone through the effort to remove the old one."

Spike and look at each other another second longer, both our expression turning different shades of sheepish, before we both look down, turning toward Giles.

"For the time being," the Watcher continues, "I don't think either of you should go out, alone or otherwise, until we can get more information."

He has a point, I think. It's not safe for us to go out, either of us, and especially not on our own. Which is all fine and good, but which also kind of makes things difficult.

"Mmhm," Spike says, angling his body toward the older man. "And how do you propose we do that if we can't go looking for it?"

Giles just stares at the vampire, unfazed. "Very carefully," he says simply, then turns to pin me with a hard look. "No more of this casual, Devil may care recklessness."

I make a face at him. My God, it was _one_ time.

"Fine," I say, throwing my hands up in the air before folding them over my chest. "So what do we do now?"

"We'll develop some sort of plan," Giles answers me, then turns toward the bleached blonde. "But there are some things that need to be addressed first. Starting with you, Spike."

Spike frowns, throwing a quick, confused glance my way. "What about me?"

"You can't stay in your crypt," Giles replies coolly, gesturing around us demonstratively. He points toward the crypt door. "There's nothing stopping the Initiative from hunting you down here if it is you they're looking for."

His words hit me hard, icy trickles racing down my back. God, I'd almost completely forgotten. That's the whole reason I'd told him to stay put when I'd left for patrol in the first place. The reason I'd initially been so mad when he'd followed me here. Of course. The cemetery, his crypt…these are the last two places we should be if we want to be safe.

I send a tiny thank you up to the Powers that nothing had happened to Spike while he'd been here, and I'd been out.

And my thoughts are already spinning, working themselves up. Where's the safest place for us to go? The safest place for Spike to stay, if it is them they're after? Somewhere the Initiative soldiers would never think to look.

"Where am I supposed to go?" The vampire's asking now, his voice hard, sarcastic. "Move back in with you, Rupert?" I look up at him and his eyes are narrowed, lips pursed as he drops his voice down lower. "Sorry. Don't fancy another extended stay in that ruddy bathtub of yours."

And the light bulb goes on.

"With me," I say instantly, turning toward Spike again. He turns to look down at me, brow furrowed, and I reach for his hand. "You should move in with me." A pause. Then, "And Mom, and Dawn."

Spike just stares down at me, his eyes wide and warm and the most incredibly twinkling azurey blue. Looking a whole lot like a cat's gotten a hold of his tongue.

"Now, hold on Buffy—" Giles begins, shuffling closer to us, footsteps scuffling on the stone.

"Why?" I ask, turning toward him again. "It's perfect. At least until we know exactly what we're dealing with." I look back to Spike. "If they are after you, where's the last place they'd think to look?"

I watch his lips curve up, a wry smile as he looks down at me and nods. "Slayer's place."

I nod back. "And if it is me then that works, too." I shrug. "Two of us with super powers are better than one."

Beside us, Giles clears his throat a little awkwardly. "I suppose that…does make a certain sense."

"Of course it does," I say breezily, grinning at him. He makes a face at me, then looks away, brow furrowed like he's thinking something over.

"I wouldn't risk traveling through the cemeteries after dark," He says finally, glancing back and forth again between the two of us, his brow pinched. "If you have sewer access, Spike, I'd make use of it."

Then he shakes his head, turning his eyes up to the ceiling. A little like he can't believe he just said that. I doubt he's completely sold on our new little cohabitation arrangement, but it doesn't really matter.

Spike nods a Giles and we turn to look at each other again. "Tunnel comes up just a little ways down from your house," he explains, indicating with a tilt of his head toward the open hatch in the floor.

"Okay," I say, nodding. Then I pause to take a look around the crypt, at Spike's few and far between belongings, before meeting his eyes again. "We'll just grab whatever you think you might need and then we'll motor."

It feels good, this pseudo sort of plan. Feels good to be moving forward. To be…doing something. Other than worrying, or spending energy trying to solve Spike's memory issues, or losing focus on whatever it is we're supposed to be together.

No, yeah. This is good.

Giles tells us he'll go back to his apartment and pack up the rest of the blood he has on hand in the fridge and bring it over to Mom's, that he'll meet us over there to make sure there aren't any problems. Spike and I both nod and thank him, my vampire already starting to gather up a few "essentials", quickly disappearing down into the cavernous basement room for a box to carry things in.

"Be careful," Giles says, turning back to look at me from the crypt's doorway just as he's about to leave.

The warning is nothing new, nothing I haven't heard about a million times before.

It's the next words that catch me off guard. "Both of you."

 _Both of you._

I blink at him, then slowly nod, promising him we will be. He nods back, and then he's gone.

Mom has less than zero problem with Spike moving in with us, which is no surprise to me, but still somehow manages to surprise the vampire. I can feel it from him. The subtle waves of surprise, and then immediately after, of a soft kind of contentedness. The same that had passed between us when Dawn had launched herself at him, squealing excitedly and wrapping her arms around his waist.

It had happened only a minute or two after we'd first arrived, smoking blanket, boxes and all, tumbling through the back door and into the kitchen. Giles had managed to beat us by quite a bit to the house, and subsequently had already filled Mom and Dawn in on everything, and of course, the two of them had already made certain arrangements for our houseguest. Setting the basement cot up, clearing away some boxes for extra shelving space. Spike had been equal parts sweetly grateful, that touch of Victorian gentleman I've missed so much creeping up to the surface, and a little frustrated that they'd gone through the trouble at all. Dawn had cheerily insisted that it hadn't taken them long, and Mom had just as warmly insisted they hadn't minded at all.

Giles had left shortly after we'd shown up, citing a need to run some errands, and for the Summers women to have a chance to do a little catching up. I admit, I'd been grateful for the time. I really hadn't spent any time with my family since the chipping incident at Christmas, and it had felt good, so _incredibly_ good, just to be able to sit in the kitchen and talk to them. And all without having to worry about the things going on in Spike's head.

After some much needed, albeit speed dating-ish catching up amongst the four of us, Spike had disappeared down to the basement to smoke and "unpack", and I'd ventured upstairs to shower and change clothes. Mom had followed me, catching my in my bedroom before I'd had time to disappear into the bathroom.

" _Not your best look,"_ she'd teased me lightly, eyeing Spike's borrowed clothes and pulling me into a warm hug _. "I'm glad you're home."_

" _Me too,"_ I'd agreed softly, squeezing her back before pulling away. " _And thank you, for letting Spike stay here. I know it's kind of…with the weird and everything."_

" _Honestly, honey,"_ she'd told me, catching my chin between her thumb and forefinger, smiling. " _There's not much I find weird anymore."_

But that hadn't stopped her from laying down some serious house rules for us. Not that I'd expected anything less, it had just felt a little silly. A lot silly, actually. Me standing there in my vampire lover's borrowed morning after clothes and everything.

Now, freshly showered and covered in cozy sweats and a white tank, I walk slowly down the basement steps and into Spike's new bedroom. I watch him through the open slats below the railing, wincing when one of the boards creaks badly beneath my weight, bringing a pair of ice blue eyes whipping toward me.

"Sneakin' up on me, are you?" Spike asks softly, smirking at me as he lifts something out of the big box at his feet and places it on one of the cleared off shelves.

His poetry book. Or, William's poetry book, I guess…depending on how you look at it. I can see it clearly, it's beautiful gold binding, propped up on the shelf beside the cot beside the three volume _Pride and Prejudice_ edition from Mom. The one she'd read to us while he was still big with the comatose.

The memory of it, of him lying completely lifeless in the bed beside me, has my chest tightening and my stomach doing a flipping thing.

Spike frowns suddenly, like he's felt it, stepping away from the shelf and angling his body toward mine. "What's the matter?"

I shake my head, crossing my arms low across my waist and descending the last three or so steps down onto the concrete floor. "Nothing now," I say quietly, stepping up beside him and glancing down toward his makeshift bookcase. "I thought it was essential items only." I reach for the yellow book, pulling it off the shelf and flipping it open.

Beside me, Spike sighs, shoving both hands down into his jean pockets as I look back at him. "Yeah," he says slowly, his voice soft and low. "Well."

Not really an answer, but not something I feel like pushing just yet. I haven't forgotten about what we've talked about, the things I've wanted to ask him about his past. But he just got those memories back. Literally, just.

Now isn't the time to push.

And besides, he's told me a little bit just by choosing to bring the book with him. He brought it here because it matters to him, which duh, of course it does. He's carried it with him for over a hundred years.

But I do notice he hasn't brought either of the other two books from the crypt.

"You wanna read me one?" I ask, thumbing through gilded pages until I reach the front cover, the signature there.

Spike reaches a hand out and takes the book from me, snapping it shut and cradling it in his own hands. Not roughly at all, but with enough force that I step back, turning to look at his face. His eyes are dark.

"You wanna tell _me_ why you risked your neck to bring my memories back?" he asks me, his voice harder, more tense than a moment ago. I watch as he takes the book and places it back on the shelf, stepping around me to drop down onto the cot. He looks up at me, eyebrows raised expectantly.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes, a little frustrated that we keep coming back to this. I thought _this_ was over. And again, a rush of hot impatience in my cheeks as I struggle to understand why it seems to matter so much, anyway.

"Are we still on that?" I ask him, titling my head to the side. "Or are you just being avoidy?"

"Yeah, Slayer," he says angrily, eyes narrowed. "We're still on that." He shakes his head, dropping his eyes away from mine and down toward the ground. "I'm s'posed to be the reckless one here."

I nod, folding my arms over my chest and feeling my jaw clench tight. I'm really getting tired of coming back to the whole Buffy being reckless thing.

And, you know, I'm really getting tired of being called reckless. And by Spike, of all people.

I mean, hello Kettle?

"Don't we have bigger, badder, more Initiative-shaped things to be worrying about?" I ask him, trying not to let my rising irritation get the best of me. We've both been through a lot, a lot, in the last week or so and I definitely didn't come down here to argue some more.

"You know," Spike says, leaning forward to brace his forearms against his thighs. "I can just _make_ you talk to me about it."

My eyes flash and I step closer to him. "We agreed not to do that," I say, more upset in this moment that he's threatened to use the connection that way than I am about the reason he's threatening to use it that way.

But Spike just looks at me, unfazed by the rising swell of angry in my chest. His lips pursed, cheeks hollowed and one eyebrow raised high. "Not above cheatin' to get what I want, am I?" he asks coolly, his voice smooth and low.

I blink down at him, thrown for a second.

It's something we haven't really talked about yet. Haven't had a chance to. What he remembers from that day, one of the longest twenty-four hours of my life. I'd wondered briefly, earlier today, if he'd have memories from that day or if they'd get sort of wiped out in the process of the rest of them coming back.

I guess I have my answer.

"You remember that?" I ask, brow furrowing.

Spike chuckles, nodding and looking away from me. "Remember a lot of things, pet." I watch him suck in a shaky breath, exhaling slowly. "Remember coming back to myself, everythin' sort of tumblin' back all at once. The tranq, the surgery, wakin' up in Giles's bed. Seein' you and not…" Spike trails off, jaw clenched. He shifts his eyes back to me, and my breath sticks in my throat. Pain. It's all I can see there, the most overwhelming of the emotions flowing over me now. _Pain_. "Mostly now I just remember thinkin' you were dying. That I'd…killed you." His voice catches, and he closes his eyes. Pausing for a long moment, like he doesn't know what else to say. Doesn't know what else he wants to say. Then he exhales again, shakes his head. When his eyes open they aren't on me, just past me. And very, very far away.

"Remember rolling over and seein' you there. Christ, luv, you were so _pale_. So…still." He pauses, blinks, and I can see it again. His eyes are gleaming and wet, turning a dark navy even as I watch. "Couldn't keep those beautiful eyes of yours open. Then you fell asleep and I just…waited. Waited and remembered and…and then I started thinkin', ya know, what would I do if you never woke up? If it'd been _me_ that…" His voice breaks again, and my eyes begin to burn. Now would be the time to say something, anything. Anything to take the pain away from him. To reassure him. To touch him and tell him everything's fine, that I'm here, that I'd trusted him and it had paid off. That he's tormenting himself now over _nothing_. Over something that didn't happen.

But, God, I can't speak. Can't say a word, can't bring myself to break the silence. My mouth is dry, voice stricken dumb by the spell his words have woven around me. I'm frozen to the spot, barely breathing. My hands are shaking.

But as I watch, as I'm just about to force my feet forward and go to him, everything shifts. The gripping pain and guilt waver and fade, replaced by a raging, roaring anger. Spike shakes his head vigorously, breaking the haze, shattering the spell.

And then he's up on his feet, storming right into my space and grabbing me hard around my upper arms, shaking me the same way Giles had earlier.

"Why'd you do it, pet?" he demands harshly, his eyes still glistening, lashes wet. Hard and dark. "After what you've _seen_. Knowin' what you do. Seein' those nightmares first hand?" He tightens his grip and drags me closer to him, and I let him, still half frozen. "After _everythin'_ I've told you. Why?"

 _Why?_

Isn't it obvious?

"Does it matter why?" I manage to ask, the question that's been plaguing my own thoughts all day. Still not understanding. Even after everything he's just said, the things he's told me, how he felt waking up and seeing me…like that. I still don't understand. "It worked."

Spike growls.

"Of course it matters," He yells, actually yells, not bothering at all to keep his voice down now. "Did you stop to think for one _sodding_ second about what could happen? Yeah, it worked, alright? Brought all my memories back, good and proper." And then he pauses, and it's like all the steam just runs out. Dries up. His eyes are still fierce, burning into mine, but his voice has lost all its power from a moment ago when he speaks next. Soft, torn. "But what good is any of that to me in a world where you don't exist?"

There's subtext in his words. A lot of it. And they ring in my ear, letting me know how much they should probably mean to me. Echoes from his words in my dream, the ones that seem so long ago now. And again, another echo, the words he spoke to me outside the crypt just before the claim.

And yet it hadn't occurred to me. In that moment, when I'd made that split second decision, what it could mean for him. I hadn't been thinking about anything other than fixing him, bringing him back to himself. Because in that moment there had been no consequences, and no logic, and no what happens if's. Just me, and him. And _me_ needing _him_.

"I wasn't…" I start to explain, my voice weak and small in my ears. I shake my head, my eyes stinging hotly. "I didn't think—"

My vampire laughs, but not like this is funny. Like this is the opposite of funny. "No, you didn't, did you?" Spike asks me, sniffling, letting go of my arms and stepping away backward. He jabs a finger hard in my direction. "Not about anyone but yourself."

He might as well have hit me. It might have hurt less.

Because it's one thing for me to think it. It's another to hear him say it.

I stagger backward, clutching at my stomach and gaping at him with wide eyes, lips open and frozen in an "O". I blink at him. "How can you say that?"

Spike sighs loudly, growling under his breath as he reaches both hands up and scrubs them down his face, squeezing his eyes shut. There's a brief pang of guilt again. "I'm sorry." His eyes snap open. "I'm just…"

And the ghe guilt vanishes. I watch as Spike lunges for me again, hands cupping my face and hauling me against him. He covers my mouth with his. Savage, bruising force. Desperate and wild and fiercely possessive. When he pulls away from me we're both gasping, chests heaving, his hands still pressed against my cheeks as he whispers "Bloody hell, Buffy, I'm so f _ucking_ angry at you."

He lets go of me then, whirling away from me and storming toward the other end of the basement.

I stare after him, blinking, working through everything he's told me. And even if I can admit he has a point. Even if I know somewhere in the back of my mind that the decision I'd made _had_ been reckless, _had_ been selfish, I'm angry, too.

It's my _turn_ to be angry.

"What about me, Spike?" I half shout at him, watching as he comes to an abrupt stop near the stairs but doesn't turn to look at me. "You wanna know _why_ I did it? Let's think about that for a second. I was out for what, twenty-four hours?" I pause, waiting to see if he'll acknowledge that. He glances back at me over his shoulder, and I continue on. "You were in a coma for five days. Five _days_. And that was because of me. Because you wanted the chip out, for _me_. And God, nobody _but_ me thought you were going to wake up again." I cross the space between us and grab him, forcing him to turn toward me. Reaching up and cupping his face in my hands. Still angry, practically vibrating with it, how virile it is as it ripples between the two of us. "And then you did," I tell him, shaking my head. "And it was you, but it wasn't you. It was like this weird…shell of you." I press further into him, my thumbs sort of instinctively brushing over his cheeks and trying to keep my voice from breaking. "This shell that looked and, and talked and even acted like you, but when you looked at me there was _nothing_." I pause for a moment, my eyes wet, vision blurring. "You didn't love me. Didn't _remember_ that you loved me. And it was awful." My voice cracks, and I have to pause again. Taking a deep breath, I almost lose control completely when I feel Spike's arms move to slowly wrap around my waist. But it helps a little, too. "Looking in your eyes and seeing that…nothing. I just wanted to fix it," I tell him lamely. But the rage between us is flickering, starting to piter out. "And yeah, okay, what I did was way stupid, and super dangerous…and maybe even an eensy bit selfish…"

I trail off, unsure of what I want to say next. I've been so busy talking, pushing the words out in a rush that I hadn't noticed that all the anger is gone now. Things feel very…quiet. Calm. I don't know if it's me or Spike making it happen, which one of us is manipulating the connection this time, but it doesn't really matter.

"But?" Spike prompts me gently, hearing the inflection in my sentence. Knowing I haven't said everything I'd wanted to.

 _But what?_

I sigh, blinking the last of the blurriness away and meeting his stormy eyes with mine.

 _But…"_ It would've been worth it."

Immediately, his hold around my waist tightens and he whispers a strained sounding "No, luv". He gives a subtle shake of his head, gaze glued to mine. "Lot of things in this world worth dyin' for, specially in your line of work." He leans forward and presses his forehead to mine. "I'm not one of 'em."

But he's wrong. He's so wrong, and I want to tell him that. Open my mouth to say the words.

But he won't listen to me if I say that, and we'll just start this argument all over again.

"A few months ago I probably would've agreed with you," I say instead, my lips twitching into a small smile when I feel his shoulders shake with a short, low chuckle. Then he pulls back from me, bringing his right hand up to run it through my thirty-minutes-post-shower-damp hair. His expression grows serious, lips pursed. "Promise me you'll never do that again, Buffy."

It's a promise I don't know if I can keep. I don't want to make any more of those.

"Would you have done it for me?" I ask him softly, instead of answering.

Spike frowns at me, looking and feeling a little frustrated again. "That's beside the bloody point, innit?"

I frown back at him. "I think it's right on top of the point."

The vampire sighs, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling and nodding his head. "If you're askin' if I'd go up in a big puff of dust for you, you know the answer to that." He lets go of me suddenly, moving back toward the makeshift bed and dropping down onto it. His eyes find mine again. "Protect you to the end of the world."

I follow his path across the concrete floor, stopping when my legs brush the edge of the cot. "And what good is that to me in a world where you don't exist?" I ask him pointedly, sinking down beside him, listening to the creak and groan of the thin mattress below me as I do.

Spike smirks grudgingly at me, shaking his head. "Think you're clever, do you?"

My own lips curve upward and I lean into him, resting my heavy head on his shoulder. "A little."

He laughs, the shaking of his shoulder jarring me slightly until he hooks his arms around my waist and pulls me against him. I don't know if we're really solved anything or not, or if we've just buried it for now. I'm guessing chances are it's probably the second one, but neither of us seems to be in a hurry to keep dealing.

Dealing can come later.

"Right, you cheeky minx," Spike says after a minute, sighing loudly. "I won't go off in a blaze of dusty glory for you if you don't do any hero trippin' on account of me." His hand squeezes my waist. "Deal?"

I nod against him, reaching a hand up to stifle the sudden, wide yawn that breaks past my lips. It's been a long day. A long _week_. I don't think either of us have slept, actually _slept_ , at all.

"Tired?" Spike asks.

I nod again. "A little, I guess." Then I frown into the fabric of his t-shirt. "Mostly I think I'm getting antsy."

I feel Spike nod, his arm gripping me a little more tightly. "Wantin' to get the commando issue squared?"

Among other things. A lot of other things.

"I just wanna know what they want. Last I heard, the government had dismantled the whole thing." I yawn again, thinking back to whatever it was Riley had told me at the time. "Buried it way under their top secret X-file rug or something."

Another pause as we just sit beside each other, his hand rubbing slow, soothing circles into the small of my back. Then, "You really don't know where Captain Cardboard got off to?"

"Really don't," I tell him honestly, yawning again, not catching this one in time to muffle it.

I feel Spike's lips in my hair, pressing lightly to the crown of my head. "Why don't we call it a night," he suggests, the words softly muffled against me. "Can work up a plan tomorrow, yeah?"

"Okay," I agree easily, rolling away from him and down onto the cot, turning my body so I'm facing the wall.

"Buffy, luv," Spike shakes me lightly, his hand splayed over my hip. "S'posed to be sleepin' in your own bed."

 _Urgh._

One of Mom's house rules. No "sleeping together". She'd insisted, even though Dawn had so helpfully pointed out that we'd done it more than once already and that her virgin ears and eyes were no worse for wear.

It had seemed like a goofy rule to me at the time, and it seems even larger on the goofy rule scale now that I'm down here, and it's been such a long time it feels like since we were just here, just _us_ , together. And I'm so tired.

And cozy.

"Don't care," I murmur, nuzzling my cheek further into Spike's pillow. "Comfy."

"Yeah, well, you might not…" I feel his weight shift on the cot behind me, then the soft pressure of his head on the pillow, his lips soft and cool against the back of my neck. His arm wraps loosely around me. "But your mum more'n likely will."

A small, sleepy smile curves my lips when I feel him relax along the length of my body. "Just five minutes," I promise lazily.

Spike laughs softly, his arm curving a little more snugly around me as he does. "Alright, pet. Five minutes." He presses a tiny kiss to my neck and settles in a little more closely behind me, air from his slow exhale stirring my hair. "Then I'm takin' you up to your room."

"Kay," I agree.

But when I wake up the next morning it's in the dim light of my basement, still firmly cradled in Spike's arms.


	41. Chapter 40

A few days pass in relative non-issueness, and we all find ourselves falling into another rhythm. Spike and I stay holed up in the house, so there aren't any risky run-ins with any members of the Initiative. Giles is off supposedly coming up with a plan, meanwhile my vampire and I spend some time just generally trying to play catch up from everything it feels like we've missed over the last week and a half. Which, as it turns out, hadn't been a whole lot. Dawnie still hadn't started school back up when we'd moved back in, and Mom had still only been working off and on, a few hours here and there. And, like I said-the first few days were relatively issue-less. Honestly, I think we'd all just been so happy to be done dealing with the mess that Christmas had left behind that none of us had wanted to do much in the way of boat rocking.

But after those first few days of Spike and I sleeping in separate beds, or rather, of me falling asleep in the basement on Spike's cot and Spike then having to carry me up two flights of stairs into my own bedroom, the vampire had finally managed to convince me that we'd needed to have "a little chat" with Mom about what exactly the relationship between us entails. Mom had sort of grudgingly admitted to us that the whole sleeping in our own beds thing was kind of a knee jerk reaction to having a boyfriend of mine move into the house. When I'd reminded her, a little haltingly, that Spike's a lot closer to being my husband than he is to really being my boyfriend, I'd seen it happen watched as the reality of our relationship had actually started to click. That the bond between us, the connection and the claim, they aren't just words. That what we'd told her that night in the kitchen is bigger than maybe she'd even thought it was. And so she'd agreed. While we'd decided to leave Spike's stuff in the basement, and to leave the cot set up, too, Mom had agreed that forcing us to sleep separately was a little irrational. All in all, the whole "chat" thing ended up going a lot more smoothly than I'd expected it to, _and_ all without the massive awkwardness I'd been way ready for.

Well, no awkwardness until Mom had decided she needed to remind Spike and I that Dawn is still of an "impressionable age", and that her bedroom wall does in fact back up to mine. My face had turned several different shades of red, and Spike had laughed for a good ten minutes straight once Mom had left the room.

Things had started to move a little more slowly after that. The four of us, Mom, Dawn me and Spike, had spent a few more quiet days together before real life had jumped in and decided to rear it's ugly head. Mom had eventually gone back to work almost full time, Dawn had eventually had to go back to school, and Spike and I had suddenly found ourselves at home in a big, empty house for up to eight hours at a time.

Which, ya know, had been great. At first.

A week. One whole week. That's as far as we'd gotten before we'd finally started to grate on each other's nerves. Not, ya know, in a big bad way. _Definitely_ not in the way we used to get on each other's nerves, with the insults and the punching in the face. But more…normal. Normaly, couply type of getting on each other's nerves, leading to normal, couply types of arguments. Which, it's funny, because as irritating as the habits are, and as draining as the nitpicking and the bickering can be, I think there's a part of both of us that actually enjoys it. Whether it's just for something to do, or whether it's because it does start to feel so pleasantly _normal_ , I don't know. All I do now is we clearly spend _so_ much time together that we start to notice things about each other's habits we might not have picked up on before.

Like Spike and his whole leaving wet towels on the floor thing.

" _Tell you what, pet,"_ he'd said to me, leaning forward and pressing the tip of his nose to mine. " _I'll start pickin' those up when_ you _stop leavin' your sodding clothes all over the bedroom floor."_ Then he'd pulled away from me, shaking his head and grumbling about how the bedroom " _S'like a bloody bomb went off in there."_

I've also learned that my vampire hates it when the Summers women leave dishes in the sink and don't put them in the dishwasher. Like, _really_ hates it. " _Bloody hell, women. It's less than a foot away."_ Dawn admitted to me that she does it sometimes now just to get a reaction out of him. Which is all fine and good, except when she finishes her breakfast and goes to school and I'm left with a very cranky vampire on my hands.

So between the two of us being cooped up inside, the various bad, irritating, annoying habits, the semi-awkward dynamic with Mom and the lack of any sort of plan from Giles...things just haven't exactly been smooth sailing lately, that's all. And even then, when Giles finally _does_ come up with a plan on dealing with the Initiative, it isn't much of one. Not according to Spike, anyway.

" _You're just gonna…look for them?" Spike asks, pinning my Watcher with a patented scarred brow raise._

 _Giles shoots him a dismissive glance, looking like he's fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "That is what reconnaissance means, yes." Then he turns his attention back toward me. "We know the Initiative is back in Sunnydale, we just don't know why, or where they're located." He leans back in mom's desk chair and folds his hands in his lap. "We'll start by searching near the old lab's facilities and go from there."_

 _Spike nods thoughtfully, hollowing his cheeks and pursing his lips. The hand he has resting on my knee squeezes just slightly. "And who exactly will be doing this reconnaissance, Rupert?" He cocks his head to the side, both brows raising now. "You?"_

 _Giles takes a deep breath, letting the air out slowly and nodding his head. "With help from the others, yes," he explains._

" _Right," Spike says, his voice biting, somewhere between sarcastic and frustrated. "And what happens if one of you gets nabbed up in the process?"_

 _Giles opens his mouth to say something, to argue with us, but I don't give him the chance._

" _Spike's right," I say, cutting him off before he can even start. "I mean, I don't love the idea of you guys out there at night anymore than I like the idea of…" I trail off, casting a sideways glance at the vampire beside me before clearing my throat and continuing on. "…us out there at night."_

 _But Giles is already shaking his head, ready to dismiss my concerns. Like he's already thought through all this in his head before coming over here in the first place. Which, yeah, I"m sure he has. But it still feels pretty risky to me. And Spike's right— recon seems a little…well, lame._

" _We aren't planning to go at night, Buffy," Giles tells me now, pushing himself up to his feet. "We'll do our looking during the day, and in pairs."_

We'd argued with him...or, well, we'd _tried_ arguing with him a little more but he hadn't listened, making another request of me to try and do my best to locate Riley, which, _hello_ , easier said than done when I'm kind of house bound. But it didn't matter much, since Spike and I'd already given it a try. Early on, the first week at home, I'd called the last known number I'd had for him a couple different times, though no one ever picked up, and it wasn't like I was about to leave a message or anything. I'd explained all that to Giles when he'd first arrived that afternoon, but he'd insisted I keep trying. He'd also insisted that he was fairly certain an old man and several students weren't exactly what the Initiative had come back to Sunnydale for. Which, sure, he'd had a point.

But it's been _days_. Days, with no luck, nothing to report and very little in the way of the gang providing us with updates. Probably because Willow'd learned the hard way that calling here without so much as a pseudo soldier boy lair sighting is bad news, unless said person wants to get an ear full from one of us about how being stuck in here, day in and day out, is making us both lose our minds a little bit. So I'd taken it upon myself to check in on my own for updates.

And that's how I find myself now, drumming an impatient, disjointed rhythm against the kitchen counter as I lean against it and call over to the Magic Box.

"Anything new on the Initiative front?" I ask as soon as soon as Giles picks up, drumming my fingers against the island counter top in the kitchen.

I hear my Watcher sigh heavily into the recover, and I can just picture him reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Not since the last time you asked me," he says slowly, "an hour ago."

Okay. So maybe I'm being just a little on the neurotic side about the whole thing.

"Well, what about Willow and Tara?" I ask immediately, comfortable in what's become my standard line of question over the past few days. "Xander? Does anyone have any news?"

I don't know if I'm expecting there to be anything new, or if I'm just calling him to have something to do. Something other than fidgeting, or watching TV, or bickering back and forth with Spike. I can hear the vampire, even now, still grumbling under his breath about the last little "tiff" we'd had. This time, over the remote control to the TV. He'd been stuck on watching his soap opera, and I'd wanted to watch...well, _anything_ else. And we'd argued, there'd been words...there might have been some projectile pillows, and I'd ended up storming out.

So maybe that's the real reason I'd decided to call Giles— I just needed a minute to myself.

"Buffy, please," Giles is saying now, and I can hear a little noise in the background. Possibly Anya, greeting a customer. "It's only been a couple of days since we even started looking—"

"I know," I say quickly, cutting him off as I wander through the kitchen and into the dining room. I've heard it all a million times by now anyway. "I know, I'm sorry. Just…" I trail off, leaning around the corner and peering into the living room to catch a glimpse of my vampire. He's still sitting on the sofa where I'd left him, arms resting against his thighs, eyes closed and rubbing at his temples with his finger tips. I sigh, scooting back into the dining room and leaning my back against the wall. "Can you blame me? We're going stir crazy over here, Giles."

I can practically hear Giles rolling his eyes. "And by 'we' I'm assuming you mean—"

"Spike," I say immediately, lowering my voice a little. "Yeah. Mostly Spike." But definitely me, too. Maybe even _mostly_ me. It's hard to tell which of us has a higher twisty, anxious level at the moment. I don't think either of us is exactly built to withstand spending long periods of time cooped up in any one place. And I know that's why we've been arguing so much lately, every little thing, every small, mildly irritating habit of ours turns into a virtual knock down, drag out fight, especially when we're here alone during the day. Well, no, I guess that's not exactly true. I definitely have a theory about that, at least.

But the point is, I don't know _what_ exactly's going to happen if we can't get out of here soon.

I sigh, closing my eyes for a long blink before opening them again. "He's going crazy and by extension that means I'm going crazy. What with the connectedness and the…connectedness." I drop my voice down even lower, angling the reciever closer to my lips as I do. "And Giles, I swear, if I have to watch one more episode of Passions I just might stake him myself."

This earns a choked bark of laughter from Giles. "Well, if you decide to do so, be sure and give me a call first," he quips, clearly amused by my predicament.

There's a rush of heat to my cheeks as a wave of irritation settles in my gut, and I frown into the receiver. "You're enjoying this way too much," I accuse harshly, opening my eyes again and shoving off the dining room wall.

Giles just sighs again. "You're being a bit dramatic, don't you think?"

Well, _duh_. Doesn't he know the emptiest of empty threats when he hears one?

"Of course I'm being dramatic," I hiss, throwing my free hand up like somehow he can see my exasperation through the phone. "I'm a nineteen year old girl."

"Soon to be twenty," Giles says quickly, jumping on what he obviously thinks is a perfect opportunity to change the subject. He clears his throat a little awkwardly. "Have you given any thought to what you might like for your birthday this year?"

I make a face at the phone. Oh, sure. Because it's just that easy to distract Buffy with prezzies. Nope. Not this time.

We have way wiggier things to worry about than the fact that I've somehow managed to survive another year.

" _Out_ , Giles," I say sternly, my voice very low. Like I mean business. "I want out of this house. I want to find the Initiative and take them down and go back to living my normal, slaying Slayer lifestyle." I put my free hand on my hip, tilting my head to the side and falsely sweetening my voice. "Can you get _that_ for me for my birthday?"

There's a beat on the other end of the line. Then, "I still have a week, don't I?"

I roll my eyes. "You're funny."

My Watcher pauses again, and I can hear him suck in a deep breath. "Something will turn up, Buffy," he tells me finally, doing his best to sound reassuring, positive. "It always does."

And I know it's true. So far, everything's managed to work itself out. As far as someone who seems to keep continually drawing the short stick in life, I've been pretty consistent with the big break catching. Things in Buffy's world are never quite as apocolypty as they seem.

I nod even though he can't see me. I know he's right. I know they're doing everything they can. I know it's best for everyone right now, that Spike and I stay under house arrest until we know more about whatever it is the Initiative is here for.

It doesn't make the medicine any easier to swallow.

"And in the meantime Spike and I are going to lose our minds," I remind him petulantly, my voice sounding tired in my ears as I round the corner into the foyer and walk slowly toward the living room. Spike glances up at me when I step into the room, his azure eyes tired when they meet mine. Tired, and warm with a look I've seen a lot over the past week. Not apologetic, exactly, but more of a _I-don't-want-to-argue-anymore_ type look.

My chest tightens a little.

"Give it a few more days," Giles says in my ear as I come to a step and lean against the open doorway. "If we still haven't found anything it might be time to consider—"

"Bringing in the big guns?" I ask, trying and failing to keep the obvious excitement out of my voice. I glance at Spike, noticing that even though he isn't looking at me anymore, I can see the start of a smirk curve his lips.

"I was going to say letting you help us search," Giles counters flatly.

"That's what I said," I say, sharing a strained, knowing look with the vampire on the sofa.

"Yes, well, in the meantime why don't you try and relax?" Giles suggests, and I can hear it in his voice, that he wants to wrap up the conversation. From somewhere in the background I can hear more noise. Something must be going on at the shop. I frown, struggling to hear Giles's voice through the growing noise. "Stay inside, be patient, and for God's sake _try_ and enjoy having a little time off—" He cuts out, his voice a little muffled as he mutters "Yes, Anya, just one moment." Then, back to me, "You've more than earned it."

"Fine," I grumble, rolling my shoulders back and cracking my neck to the side. My muscles all feel stiff and sore, probably, _irony of ironies_ , from too much sitting around. If Spike and I can't find some constructive way off burning off all this pent up energy I'm afraid they'll all atrophy and shrivel up. "But if I don't hear anything in the next couple hours—"

"Yes," Giles says dismissively, "alright then."

And then there's a click, and the line goes dead. I pull the phone away from ear and stare down at it for a minute, frowning deeply before a little hesitantly turning my eyes back up toward Spike's.

"He hung up on me," I tell him flatly, a little indignant as I click the end call button and cross the room to set the cordless down on the coffee table.

Spike shrugs, his eyes never leaving mine as he shifts on the sofa, leaning his back into the cushions. "Can't say as I blame him."

I make a face at him, feeling another soft swell of frustration for the bleached vampire sizzling along my skin as I fold my arms up across my chest. "Who's side are you on?" I ask him, feeling my jaw clench slightly.

Spike doesn't miss a beat. "Yours, sweetheart," he tells on an exasperated sigh, answering my question with a tilt of his head. " _Always_ yours." He pauses, and the wry smirk fades a little. "But you gotta know you've called the poor blighter more times in the past couple'a days than any sane person ought to."

I frown deeper at him, raising one eyebrow and feeling a tiny flutter of annoyance starting up in my chest. "Like you don't want news just as much as I do?"

Spike shakes his head, putting his hands palm out in front of him as if to calm me down before I can even begin to get angry again. "Didn't say I didn't, pet. Think you've gotten a touch of cabin fever, is all."

That tiny flutter that had started up again, the slow humming in my blood, seems to explode all at once. A fresh, heated wave of irritation blossoming in my chest and spreading up my neck, through my cheeks.

"Oh, _sure_ ," I begin, throwing my hands up in the air and gesturing around the room. "Buffy's the insane one for wanting some news that means we can get out of this house." I jab a finger at him, narrowing my eyes. "Easy for you to say when it's daylight outside, but we both know you'll be singing a different tune when the sun goes down, buddy."

Spike sucks in a deep breath, hollowing out his cheeks and exhaling slowly through pursed lips. "Take it you're still a bit miffed over the little incident earlier, then?" he asks me, looking up at me through long, dark lashes.

I gape at him for a minute, so _supremely_...annoyed. By how dismissive he sounds, by the too-handsome expression on his face, by the way he always manages to call me out over our arguments like this. And especially, by how he knows I'm still annoyed _and_ that he knows what I'm really annoyed about.

"Incident?" I ask, blinking at my vampire dumbly. "Spike, you threw something at my head."

He just scoffs, letting out a strained little half laugh as he sits up again, leaning toward me purposefully. "Jesus, Buffy, it was a bloody pillow."

"Yeah," I say tersely, further irritated by how annoyed _he's_ sounding now, and not sure if the swirling anger in my stomach now is mine or his, or both. "Aimed at my _head_."

Spike leans further toward me and opens his mouth to say something, seems to think better of it, and stops abruptly, snapping his mouth closed again.

And just like that, the anger fizzles a little. I recognize this feeling, too. It's what happens when one of us is still angry while the other isn't— like someone's sucked the air out of a balloon all of sudden.

So, mine. All the anger that's still left is mine.

Which means that any minute now, that anger will vanish, too. It's a pattern that's repeated itself more than once in the past week or so. We get irritated, we argue, things blow up, one of us gets over it…and with one of us over it, it's always only a matter of not much time at all until the other of us gets over it, too. God, I don't think I've managed to stay mad, _really_ mad, at Spike for longer than thirty minutes at a time.

"Come here," my vampire says to me now, gesturing to the empty space on the sofa cushion beside him. His voice is low and sweet, but not demanding. He isn't making me obey him. He knows better than that.

"What?" I ask, sighing and re-folding my arms over my chest.

Spike rolls his eyes, shifting further forward on the edge of the sofa and pinning me with a knowing look, blinking long lashes at me. "Oh, don't get all prim and proper with me." He extends his hand out toward me, beckoning me with his fingers. "Come here."

I find myself stepping toward him, slowly crossing the small space between us until I'm standing in front of him, and a little to the left of his spot on the sofa. Only halfway following his direction him, which I know drives him insane. "What?" I ask again, raising my eyebrows expectantly.

Spike smirks, reaching for me with one of those wild, lightning fast movements, gripping me around the wrist and pulling me down onto his lap. Caught off guard, my arms instinctively go to wrap around his neck, and his immediately drop down to fit tightly around my waist, holding me to him. I glare down at him, but there's no venom in it. Just being this close to him, just feeling his arms fitted around my waist, the way his indigo eyes gleam mischievously as he grins up at me. It's enough to remind me why I can never seem to stay angry at him.

And what's worse, the smug vamp knows it, too. Can feel the irritation leeching out of my muscles as I look at him, even with the scowl I've fixed on my face. He knows this always works. Knows that's why I'd refused to come near him the first time he'd asked. And as if on cue, Spike chuckles warmly, the low rumble sending tingly shock waves across my skin, and the littlest last bit of tension and irritation in my gut seems to vanish all together. I glance at the clock hung up on the wall, above the TV and almost laugh. 25 minutes, on the dot.

Spike tightens his hold on me, his fingers threading together where his hands rest against my hip. "I tell you yet today that I love you?" he asks me, a smug, purring quality to his voice when he does. The kind he always gets when he knows he's won a fight. God, I might love the vampire, but that doesn't mean he's not still an arrogant bastard.

Still, I find myself sighing, letting the muscles in my shoulders relax as I settle onto his lap. "Not yet," I tell him casually. Then I pause, shrugging. "But hey, it's only noon."

Spike's eyes go comically wide, and I can already feel my lips twitching, itching to curve up into a full blown smile. "Bloody hell, noon already?" He turns around, letting go of me and making like he's about to reach for the previously abandoned remote control. "Gonna miss Pass—"

I twist on his lap, pulling one of my hands from behind his neck and pressing a single finger to his lips, stopping him short with a shake of my head. "Don't," I say, my voice low, falsely stern. Making light of something that had us screaming at each other not even an hour ago. "Don't say it."

Spike chuckles again, and I feel the sound all the way down to my toes, enjoying the slow spread of warmth passing between us now. I watch him as his lips quirk slightly before he opens his mouth to pull my finger inside. He watches me, eyes glued to mine, nipping at the fleshy pad of my finger lightly with blunt teeth before pulling away.

"I love you," he murmurs, his voice low and smooth, sending a ripple down my spine, sparking across my skin. And I can see it on his face, in his eyes, that he's thinking the same thing I am.

Making up is always the best part of these fights.

"I know," I tell him, watching that familiar little light brighten up his gaze, the renewed flush of glowy warmth spreading through my cheeks as I find myself smiling down at him. I pull my hand away from his lips and hook it back behind his neck, letting my fingers play with the soft curls there. "I love you, too."

He leans in and kisses me soundly, capturing my mouth with his, using his grip on my waist to tug me in even closer to him as he does. I kiss him back eagerly, inhaling his scent and allowing his tongue to part my lips and entangle with mine. When I feel him sigh against me, nibbling tenderly at my bottom lip just before he pulls away, I'm not surprised. I'd been expecting him to.

"What's this then?" He asks me, gesturing with an incline of his head toward my stomach, where the itty bitty knots of anxiety are starting to twist and turn all over again. I'd been kind of hoping he wouldn't notice. Nothing ruins the moment more than weird, connected nervousness.

I sigh myself, pushing away from my vampire and shifting to the side, out of his lap and down onto the empty sofa cushion beside him. "Just wishing we had more answers," I answer honestly, casting a glance toward the coffee table and the cordless phone sitting on top of it. Like me staring at it will cause it to ring, force one of my friends to have something, anything, new to tell us.

What I'd told Giles on the phone today was the truth. Spike is really going stir crazy. He and I both are. But more than that, I'm feeling anxious to just…be for a little while. To not have a big bad to deal with. To not have Mom's sickness, or Dawn's angsty teenage drama, or Spike's chipless amnesia. It's just been one thing after another for…well, for as long as I can remember. And Spike and I…it's taken us a long time to get here. To get to be together. And we have been…together, that is. We've been together, but we haven't really gotten a chance to just be together…as a couple. Something's been nagging at us every step of the way. I think I'm just as impatient to start feeling like we can have a relationship, a _real_ relationship, as I am to just not feel like I'm a prisoner in my own home anymore.

Is that as selfish as it feels?

Even if it is, I don't know if I have it in me to care.

"'S gonna work out, pet," Spike whispers in my ear, leaning toward me to press a kiss to my temple. Reading my mind, as usual. I turn toward him, and he's focused down on the ground, some spot on the rug at our feet. "You know it as well as I do. Scoobies might be a right bloody mess at times." He shifts his eyes toward me again, raising an eyebrow as he lowers his voice. "Lord knows I can't stand the lot of 'em. But they always manage to get the job done, don't they?"

Whether he realizes it or not, it's very similar to what my Watcher had told me on the phone earlier.

I make a little face at him, wrinkling my nose up as I murmur "You know how much it wigs me when you start to agree with Giles."

Spike makes a face back at me, rolling his eyes, snaking an arm around my waist to pull me back against him. "Know how much you _pretend_ that it 'wigs' you, yeah."

I laugh a little, casting my own sideways glance toward my vampire and shaking my head. He's right, of course. It doesn't bug nearly as much as I pretend it does when he and Giles seem to agree on something. Actually, and you'll never, ever catch me saying this out loud near either of them, it makes me sort of happy. And why wouldn't it? The two most important men in my life should be able to agree on some things at least, right?

Even if those some things usually involve me, and what they seem to think is best for me.

We sit in silence for a little while. His arm around my waist, my head slumping down until it's flush with his shoulder. Moment's like these, like this, when everything just feels so…still. Still and quiet and non- world endy, it's easy to pretend. To make believe that Spike and I are normal. That he's just a man, and I'm just a woman, and being together, like this, is the most average thing in the world. It's funny. I never thought I'd have normal. And then, I never thought I'd want it. At the end of the day I guess Spike and I can't technically be considered normal…what with him being a blood sucking demon and me being a fighter called upon to end such demons and all…but then why? Why does our relationship feel the most "normal" out of all the ones I've had before?

It's with these thoughts in mind that I find myself clearing my throat, and murmuring a low sounding "Can I ask you something?"

And in return, his usual response. "Anything in the world, sweetheart."

I nod, putting both hands on the edge of the sofa and using the leverage to shove myself back up to my feet. I take a few steps away from the sofa, moving to the opposite side of the coffee table before turning around and looking back at Spike.

"Do you think we'll ever just get to be…normal?" I ask, finally giving voice to the question, the thoughts that have been plaguing me for at least the last week, if not longer. Wondering if we'll ever just get to be together, or if there will always be….something. Something else in the way. "A normal couple?"

Spike just stares at me for a minute, blinking long lashes at me and looking completely confused by my question. He keeps staring at me, finally arching both brows and widening his eyes. "You're a primal warrior for good and I'm somethin' that goes bump in the night," he says flatly, shaking his head. "Don't think _normal_ 's in the cards for us, luv."

"No, I know," I explain quickly, waving my hand at him dismissively. Briefly, very briefly, annoyed that he seems to have misunderstood my very vague question. "I meant more like…normal, for _us_. As a couple." I shrug, fighting the urge to start pacing back and forth. "A new normal."

Spike frowns at me, and I watch as a deep crease forms between his dark brows as he does. "Like…what?" He asks, leaning forward and bracing his forearms over his thighs. "Goin' out to dinner before patrols?" He cocks his head to the side, brow still furrowed. "Findin' time to catch a flick in between apocalypses?"

Well, okay, yeah. That's kind of exactly what I'd been thinking. But does he have to make it sound so…ridiculous?

"You think it's stupid," I say simply, feeling my lips twitch down into a frown.

"Now, now," he scolds me instantly, pushing himself up to his feet in response to me and eyeing me through his lashes. "Don't be puttin' words in my mouth unless you plan on puttin' somethin' else there, too." He raises both brows for emphasis, titling his head toward mine purposefully.

I feel my cheeks flush at the insinuation. But more than that, the rush of fresh annoyance is there, too. Sure, so he didn't come right out and say it sounded stupid. But he doesn't have to say it. I know he does. I can hear it in his voice, feel it in the pit of my stomach as surely as I can feel all of his other emotions. He's confused by the question because to him, it's a non-issue. It's impossible.

"I'm not putting words in your mouth," I say hotly, planting my hands on my hips as I square my shoulders. "I can see it written all over your face, Spike."

My vampire just shakes his head, and new, wry smile on his lips now. "Don't think it's stupid, pet," he explains slowly, stepping around the coffee table and out into the open space between us, starting to cross it slowly. "Just think it's…unrealistic."

He's right. God, I _know_ he's right, and still I find myself so incredibly annoyed that he's right that I'm barely listening to him as he explains all the reasons why. The past week, the last few days, those should be dead giveaways that normal isn't a thing either of us knows how to do. That what Spike said initially is exactly right—it just isn't in the cards for us.

I know he's right and still, the words are leaving my mouth before I can stop them, and my voice is way whinier than I'd like it to be. "So we can't even try?" I hear myself ask, shaking my head as I watch Spike finish crossing the space between us, stepping up to me until our noses are almost touching and I have to tilt my chin back to keep eye contact with him. I don't know why, can't understand why it's suddenly such an important thing to me. Or why this important thing, this important thing I haven't thought an inch about in almost a year and a half, is suddenly wheedling it's way back into my head, but it is. It is, and for whatever reason, I can't stop it now.

"Buffy," Spike says softly, my name rolling off his tongue and sounding sweeter, more sensual than it ever has a right to sound. He searches my eyes, scans my face, still looking a little confused. Trying to read my mind. Trying to understand as much as I am where all this is suddenly coming from. "Why is this comin' up? Why now?"

I shake my head. "I don't mean now," I explain lamely. "I mean after. After all this crap with the Initiative blows over, can we just…try?" I reach out and take his hands in mine, squeezing them once for emphasis. "Just try for some kind of normal?"

Spike sighs, and I see it when it happens. When he relents and gives in, the tense muscles in his shoulder relaxing slightly as he steps a little closer to me and untangles one of his hands from mine. He nods then, lifting his free hand up and tucking a stray strand of hair up behind my ear. "'Course we can _try_ , luv," he tells me softly, brushing the sensitive spot just below my ear with the pad of his thumb. A beat as we look at each other. Then, "Won't last, though."

I frown at him. "You don't know that."

But Spike's already shaking his head, smiling down at me. The look is smug, but not arrogant. More proud than taunting as he steps even closer to me. "I know _you_ , Buffy. Normal innit what you really want. 'S not what you need." He tilts his head to the side, his thumb still brushing slowly, softly back and forth against the tender skin below my ear. "Not that kind of normal, anyway."

And he's right again. He is. Normal is why Angel had left, and he'd been wrong to wish that for me. To wish it on me. Like him leaving would automatically mean my life would just suddenly—poof—be normal. Normal. Not a word that often winds up in the repertoire of the Vampire Slayer. The Chosen One. Normal is why things hadn't ended up working out with Riley. Normal isn't what I need. It's probably not what I want, either. Which, hello, again is why I'm probably just as confused as Spike is as to where all this normal talk is even coming from.

Maybe I'm just missing it now. I tend to miss it the most after something particular insan-o, something way more para than normal, happens. And we've been having a whole lot of that happening, lately.

"But…" I begin to say, maybe begin to argue with him some more about it, before whatever argument I' been about to make falls flat on my tongue. Fizzles out, fades away. And I'm left with one last, desperate sounding question. I nod slowly, looking up into Spike's face as I exhale the words on a sigh. "Why not?"

"Because," he says, letting his hand ghost down the curve of my neck, dropping further, further still, until the palm of his hand is resting feather light over the top of his bite mark. His eyes darken slightly as he looks at me, his voice growing lower, huskier when he speaks again. "You're not normal, sweetheart. Not even close." His fingers brush over the bite mark, and he grins, shuddering slightly in time with me as they do. "You're bloody extraordinary."

I shiver again beneath his touch, unconsciously moving toward him as I do. "So are you," I tell him honestly. Meaning it. Meaning that sentence, those three words, more than I've meant much of anything, ever. Spike is something…extraordinary doesn't even begin to explain it. Who he is. What he is. They don't match. Don't fit. He shouldn't be able to feel or think or imagine one tenth of what he does every second, every day. Every time he looks at me. Soulless demons aren't supposed to be so…soulful. So incredibly gentle. Supportive. Loving. All the things Spike is, all the things he does, on a daily basis. Without so much as batting an eye. By all logic, vampire and Slayer alike, he's going against his very nature just by being here with me right now. Looking at me like he is right now. Loving me like he is right now.

"No," Spike says, a little flash of too-familiar self-loathing pin pricking across my skin like ice as he lets out a rumbling, low chuckle as he does. He shakes his head. "'M not. Not like you. Think almost losin' you made me realize a few things."

"Spike," I start to say, my chest tightening uncomfortably at the thought of having another fight.

But Spike's way ahead of me, already shaking his head, letting his eyes flutter closed. "Doesn't matter now, does it?" He asks, more to himself than to me, his voice low. When he opens his eyes again, they're clear and warm, a dizzying, swirling mixture of blue and gold. "That's my mark on that pretty little neck of yours, yeah?" He leans forward and ghosts his lips across it, sending another pleasant thrill down my back when he does. "My mate," he whispers against my skin, kissing up the curve of my neck, up to my jaw. "My…" and he trails off, pressing one more, lingering kiss to the side of my jaw before pulling away from me, his hands firm on my waist. He inhales deeply, then sighs. The tensions from a moment ago dissolved, replaced momentarily by something else. A dizzying, heady sense of belonging, of desire. I know this feeling pretty well, too.

"You're mine," he whispers, his eyes flashing with fierce possession when he says the word.

And I'm helpless to do anything but nod and whisper back "I really am."

"You mean it, then" He asks me hotly, still whispering as he leans in toward me, our foreheads almost touching now. "What you told the old man." His eyes scan my face as he cocks his head slowly to the side, sweeping his lashes down, then back up. "That you'd stake me if I made you watch another episode of Passions?"

"Oh, yeah," I say simply, fighting the urge to giggle like an idiot at the expression on his face, the way his eyes lighten then darken again almost immediately after, a head growl rumbling passed his lips as he gazes at me.

"Good," he says brusquely, reaching for me and hooking an arm beneath my knees, the other behind my back and hauling me up into his arms before I can think or do or say anything about it. Except make a startled, indignant little huffing noise that only makes Spike laugh as he pins me to his chest. He smirks down at me, his tongue curling up behind his top teeth as he does. "Know of somethin' better we can do."

"I've been thinkin'," Spike tells me a few nights later, stepping into the bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

I turn to look at him from where I'm standing, picking up a pile of clothes I'd left on the floor near the bed the day before. He's just gotten out of the shower. I can smell the soap on his skin, mixing warmly with the ever present scent of cigarette smoke and rolling toward me on heated waves even through the t-shirt and lo slung drawstring sweat pants he's wearing. He has his wet towel in his hand, still halfway using it to dry his tousled platinum curls as he crosses the room toward me.

"Thinking, you?" I ask, pausing to glance at him briefly before turning to toss the pile of clothes in my hand over the back of my desk chair until I can sort through them. "Shocker."

"Ha bloody ha, Slayer," the vampire drawls, dropping a kiss to the exposed nape of my neck as he passses by me, moving lithely past me before I can grab for him. I turn just in time to see him drop the wet towel on my carpet before he drops down onto the edge of the bed. I clear my throat, eyeing the towel and pinning him with a raised brow. Spike rolls his eyes, mutters some distinctly British sounding curse under his breath and reaches for the black terry-cloth, snatching it up off the floor and back onto his lap.

"What about?" I prompt him, fighting the urge to smile as I do, turning my attention to the second pile of clothes on the floor in front of my closet.

"I've thought of one normal-like thing I wanna try when all this is said and done."

Okay, that? Not what I'd been expecting.

I freeze where I'm standing, still hunched over, looking up at Spike through the curtain of my hair that's fallen down in front of my eyes. I blink at him, taking in the expression on his face. "Really?" I ask him, somewhere between hesitant enthusiasm and cautious restraint. We haven't talked about the whole shooting for a normal relationship thing at all since I'd brought it up the other day. It hasn't come up organically, and I hadn't wanted to poke the bear, err, vamp...by bringing it up again too soon. Not that Spike had been unsupportive, or overly negative about it to begin with. But I'd gotten that wonky vibe from him, like me bringing it up had maybe...hurt him, or something. And he'd been all with the "it's unrealistic" and the "it won't last", anyway.

So this...him, bringing it up. Him bringing it up because he's suddenly now all on board with the idea? It's majorly weird.

But my vampire just nods. No hint of deceit, no little bitty hint that he might be faking this sudden willingness to play along, or the subtle flow of what I'm pretty sure is genuine excitement and maybe a little...anxiousness that's come from him now. Whatever it is that he's been thinking about, this "normal" thing he wants to try..,he's _excited_ about it.

And I can't help but feel excited about _that_.

I stand up straight, bringing the load of dirty clothes with me when I do and smiling at the bleached blonde seated on the bed. "Can I guess?" I ask, waiting for him to give me a quirked eyebrow and another slow nod before I push on. I carry my load of clothes over the laundry hamper and dump them in, making a big show of thinking up my first guess as I do. I turn back toward Spike, eyeing him cautiously and crossing my arms over my chest. "You're gonna let me take you shopping?"

"Bloody hell, no," Spike says immediately, his expression darkening as he leans toward me. His eyes flash, and he shakes his head. "Absolutely _no_ t."

I have to laugh a little. It's pretty much exactly the reaction I'd guessed he'd have, anyway. "Okay, so that's a big no on the shopping." I smile at him again, leaning back onto the edge of my desk, my feet kicked out in front of me, ankles crossed. "You…want to take ballroom dancing lessons?"

Spike growls at me, his eyes darkening a little. I raise an eyebrow at him, fighting the urge to laugh as I watch the understanding slowly dawn in his eyes when he realizes I'm just having a little fun at his expense.

A wry smile curves his mouth and he puts his hands back on the mattress behind him, leaning back onto them and cocking his head to the side. "Where do you come up with this crap, Slayer?"

"So that's another big no," I say, shrugging my shoulders breezily and moving on. "You've decided you…want to go back to school?" I ask suddenly, not really realizing until the words have left my mouth that I actually really like the idea of it, even as I realize how completely and totally insane it actually is. I push myself off the desk and back up onto my feet. "Take a night class at UC Sunnydale with me?" I have a quick mental flash, a blur of images. How much more I'd probably enjoy classes if we took them together. Walking into a lecture hall together and sitting down. Taking notes. Talking about class, studying for exams during patrol.

My cheeks flush hot as I remember Spike's preferred method of studying.

But Spike, for his part, doesn't look as enthused about the idea as I feel. His eyebrow is raised, lips pursed skeptically. "You do know I'm better educated than even your Watcher, don't you?"

This has me freezing again, staring at the vampire sitting across from me. It's funny, cause he's said it like it's something I should know. Like it's some kind of common knowledge or something. I mean, sure, yeah, I know that Spike is smart. Really smart, actually. Probably a lot smarter than he wants most people to even know, what with the reading all the time and the memorizing poetry and the knowing how to read and speak fluent Latin.

Still. I guess I've always had Giles up in this whole other category than just about anybody else. he's always been, like, the smartest person I know. So yeah, while I've known for a while now that Spike is definitely big with the pretty much being a total brainiac, I still don't think I'd ever put him over Giles in the smarts category.

And besides that, he's just let me in again. Let me in, given me a brief glimpse of his past. Of who it is he'd been before. I'd made the decision that first night, our first night back here, that I wouldn't push him on any of that. Wouldn't make him tell me anything about his past or about William that he didn't want to, or wasn't ready to, thought with each tiny piece he gives away it gets clearer and clearer to me that there's something he's...well, not hiding exactly, but something he's...protecting. A secret, maybe, that he seems to think is better off hidden. So no, I hadn't pushed. And it's been happening super slowly over the last couple weeks, him letting me into that part of him. Slowly, sure, but still... _happening_. Little slips here and there, like this one tonight. A little further, a little more, every day.

"Actually, no," I say now, realizing it's been a little too long since I've said anything, still sort of blinking dumbly at the vampire. "I didn't know that."

Spike responds by clearing his throat, the smirk on his face falling as he shifts his gaze away from mine briefly before looking at me again. "You wanna keep guessin'?" He asks me, his vice deceptively casual, too light. He blinks at me with those long lashes of his. "Or shall I just tell you?"

I shrug, feeling like some of the excited-about-trying-normal wind has been let out of my sails with the momentary tenseness that's slipped in between us. "Just tell me I guess."

"Right," Spike says slowly, nodding his head. "Well, I've…" and the rest of the words leave his lips in a rush, like maybe if he says them fast enough it'll be like he hasn't said them at all. "Been thinkin' we oughtta move out of your mum's house and get a place of our own."

It takes me a second to figure out what it is he's said. And once I do, I just stare at him for a second. A place of our own. A whole...a place. Of _our_ own.

 _Move in together._

"Move in together?" I ask, and my voice pitches a little too high. I clear my throat and try again. "I mean, move in…together." A brief pause as I blink a few times. "Just us two?"

"Just thought…ya know, get out of your mum's hair. And it'd be the next step and all that…if we were a normal couple, that is."

It's funny, too, how when he puts it like that it doesn't seem nearly as wiggy as it had just moments ago. That' what I'd been asking for, isn't it? To try and be some kind of normal. Our kind of normal. And he's totally right, anyway. Right now it make sense to live here, in my mom's house. Keep her and Dawn safe, keep each other safe, at least until we figure out which of us it is the Initiative is back for and how exactly we should go about stopping them. THis makes sense for now.

But once they're gone, once that threat isn't imminent, things will change. Things will have to change. Because Spike's right. We'll need to find our own place, otherwise...and right on cue, Dawn calls my name, banging on my bedroom door as she passes and asking me to come to her room when I'm finished "making crazy monkey love" with Spike.

The vampire and I exchange a knowing look, his smirk widening and my face growing red and got all over again.

We'll need to find our own place, otherwise we'll go crazy. Crazier than we've already gone.

"Yeah," I say slowly, then again, a little more convinced this time. "Yeah, okay." I nod, a slow smile starting to curve my lips the more I think about it. Moving in with Spike. Finding a place of our own that isn't my house, or his crypt. A place that's _ours_. I'm grinning at him now, watching as his smirk starts to morph into a full on, dimple-showing smile. "Let's do it. Once all this Initiative stuff blows over we'll find a place. A basement apartment or something."

Spike's eyes are bright as he looks up at me, gleaming and warm in the light from my bedside lamp. "Yeah?" he asks, and the flood of warmth, the soft glowy kind that makes my skin prickle with goose bumps and the mark on my neck pulse in time with my heart beat, rushes in waves between us. "You want to?"

I nod again, watching the light brighten further in the stormy azure when I do. "I want to," I say honestly, warming to the idea, loving the idea more and more the longer I think about it. "I do." It almost makes the whole knowing we're nowhere nearer to ridding ourselves of the Initiative shaped thorn in my side tonight than we were on Christmas almost bearable.

"Brilliant," Spike says, echoing my own thoughts and getting to his feet, stepping closer to me and pulling me into his arms, folding me against him, burying his nose in my hair. When he speaks again, it's so fast, so muffled, that I barely hear what he's said. "Then we can talk about makin' things between us more official."

I half-laugh, still not completely positive I've heard him right. But his arms are still wrapped around me, his eyes hidden, face nestled into the curve of my neck. "More official than blood bonded for life?" I ask, my voice light, teasing.

Spike laughs too, his breath cool where it tickles the skin of my throat. His arms tighten slightly, almost imperceptibly around me as he murmurs "Different kind of official, luv."

I freeze in place for the third time tonight.

"What?" I ask, my heart doing a fluttery kind of stuttering throb against my ribs as I brace my hands on his hips and shove backward, untangling myself from his arms and stepping away so I can see his eyes, the look on his face. My head is swimming just a little as I look at him, his words echoing hollowly in my ears. _More official_. More official than...what? The claim? But what...there isn't anything else. We've got the connection, completed the connection. We've done the claim.

 _There's nothing else._

Spike must read the blank expression on my face, or feel the pulsing throb of confusion, the sudden racing of my pulse because he has the decency to look a little sheepish, making a grimacey face and tearing his eyes away from mine, focusing down on the floor. "I know," he says, and he sounds like he might be torn between laughing and growling. "Makes that dinner and a movie bit look right sane, doesn't it?"

I blink a few times, staring at my vampire, at the curve of his cheek, the bashful tilt of his head. Like he's...embarrassed? Shy? God, Spike and shy...they don't belong together. The words make my head hurt, putting them together. So what is he meaning? What could he possibly be suggesting that would make him react like _this_?

It hits me then, right between the eyes. Full speed ahead, a runaway train to the chest. Exactly what he means by more official.

I almost choke on the question before I can get it out. "More official as in…you…" I trail off, shaking my head, half in disbelief and half to clear it from the rushing in my ears. I close my eyes briefly, then open them again, searching the space in front of me blindly. The words feel stuck on my tongue, they're so weird. "You want to have a _wedding_?"

That has Spikes eyes shooting back to mine immediately, his brow furrowing, lips forming a hard line. "Bloody fuck, _no_ ," he says quickly, shaking his head and searching my eyes with his. Looking at me like I'm crazy for even suggesting such a thing. And it takes a minute for the word to sink in. No. His answer to my question had been no. My chest does this weird twisting, clenching thing, and I'm surprised. I don't know if what I'm feeling is intense, crushing relief or devastating disappointment. I'd had a gut reaction, instantaneous, to the idea of having a wedding. Remembering dreams, nightmares, from what feels like eons ago. Somehow in my head always convincing myself I didn't need or want any part of that, especially after everything with Angel. Convincing myself I didn't want it because I don't think it ever occurred to me I might actually get it. Not to mention, I mean, marriage...I haven't exactly seen it have the greatest of track records or anything.

So, yeah. Relief or disappointment. It sort of feels the same.

"Oh," I say, still not sure what I'm thinking, what it is I'm feeling. What it is _Spike's_ feeling. Everything's still a little hazy.

"Sod the wedding," Spike says breezily, drawing my attention back to him, not giving me a chance to catch my breath as he lifts his hand and gestures dismissively. "I just want to marry you."

And my stomach drops all over again. _Again_ , I can't tell if the butterflies twisting up knots in my gut are the good kind or the bad kind. The best or the worst. And top of that, there's anxiety, nervousness coming from Spike, too. Where mine ends and his begins, in this moment I have no idea.

I frown, even more confused than I'd been a moment ago. "Okay," I say slowly, working through it all in my head. No wedding, then. Just...what? Just a _marriage_? "Isn't that…kind of the same thing?"

The vampire in front of me scoffs loudly, giving me a look I haven't seen in awhile. Like I've just said something completely, totally, incredibly ridiculous. I blink at him, taking a small step back. "No, it bloody well isn't," he says sternly, his eyes narrowing as he scans my face. His expression grows serious even as his eyes start to soften, and he shakes his head. "Don't need the fan fare, Buffy. No sodding bridal party, absolutely no ruddy church, and Christ, no poofy white dress." He chuckles darkly again, dropping his gaze back down to the floor at my feet, lowering his voice along with it. "Not interested in a bleeding _wedding_ , luv."

Oh.

Well, okay, when he puts it like that I guess it does sound like two different things.

I shake my head, still trying to understand all of this. What it means, where it's coming from all of a sudden. Why someone like Spike, _my_ Spike, would decide out of nowhere that he wants to...get married? I just don't _get_ it.

 _I'm not interested in a wedding_..."But you're interested in a _marriage_?" I ask him, my voice pitched a little too high. My head is spinning now, shifting all the way back to months ago. Months ago, when I'd first told Dawn about the claim, her reaction then, too. " _So Spike's going to be like my brother-in-law?"_ I'd laughed, thinking it was funny that that seemed to be the only thing she'd picked up on. Not really thinking much about it. Then again, just last week. What I'd said to Mom about Spike being more like my husband than…

I swallow hard, a lump forming in the back of my throat.

"You seem surprised," the vampire murmurs, and I can feel his eyes on me again even though I; not looking at him now.

"Surprised," I mutter, nodding my head, staring into the space in front of me. "That's…a word for it." Another long pause, and then I shake my head and meet his eyes again with mine, still frowning. Still confused. " _Married_ , Spike? I just…aren't you the one that said a claim is like a marriage, only _better_?"

It's my vampire's turn to frown, a crease forming between his dark brows. " _Stronger_ 's the word I used, I think." He sniffs, rolling his shoulders back and holding eye contact with me. "Not better."

"Stronger, then," I amend quickly, stepping to the side and around Spike, moving over toward the bed. Needing the space, just a little space, to think clearly again. "So what we already have is stronger _and_ longer lasting than a marriage…but you're still standing there telling me that's…what you want?" I turn back toward him, not surprise to find him gazing at me, head tilted slightly to the side. I shrug noncommittally. "I guess I'm just a little thrown."

Spike takes a measured step toward me. "Not sure why," he says simply, and I can feel the way he's trying to control the connection between us now. Trying to flood the connective bridge and relax me a little. Just enough that I can really _hear_ him now. "Said so yourself, William musta been some kind of romantic."

Hearing him say the name, his given name, makes me pause. I blink at him, biting down on my bottom lip as I think over what Spike's just said. About William. _William_ being a romantic. "This is about William?" I ask, my voice quiet now, the erratic pounding of my heart starting to slow now. Whether because I'm starting to understand, or because of whatever it is Spike's doing to the connection, I'm not sure.

"No," Spike says immediately, then pauses, shaking his head. "Well, not _exactly_. 'S about me. 'S just…it's _in_ me. Can't bloody shake it." He shifts his gaze toward mine and I can see it there, as strongly as I can feel it pulsing through my veins. As real a feeling as if it were my own. A wordless kind of desire, and also...shame. Just the smallest hint of something that might be shame as he gazes at me, trying to explain what he's thinking. "'S the same reason I've kept that fuckin' poetry book all this time, yeah? Some sodding, lingerin' remnant of the person I used to be."

"What brought this on, though? I ask him softly, moving to close the small space I put between us earlier. " _Something_ must have."

Spike sighs, letting out a long exhale and reaching a hand up to cup the back of his neck, looking away from me again. "Last week, we were talkin' to your mum about our sleepin' arrangements?" He shifts his eyes up to mine, and I nod to show I remember. He looks away from me again. "You…said somethin'. That I was more like your husband than a boyfriend, after everythin'...the connection, and the claim." He pauses, and I watch the muscle in his jaw tic as he turns his eyes up to the ceiling, letting his hand drop to his side. "Don't wanna just be _like_ your husband, Buffy." Piercing, bright blue eyes pin me to the spot again. "Want the whole buggering thing."

And it makes sense. It finally makes sense to me now. In that deep, familiar place where things with Spike just always seem to eventually make sense. That place I'd known about loving him, that place where I'd known all the way down in my bones that it was _always_ going to be Spike. It's in that place, that unequivocal _knowing_ place, that the bleached blond, punk rock vampire standing in front of me and telling me he wants to be my husband makes _sense_.

"Moving in together," I say suddenly, that same sense of understanding filtering through everything else now. "That wasn't the 'normal' thing you'd been thinking about, was it." Not a question, but a statement.

"Caught me," Spike says, the hint of a sly little smile ghosting his lips. Relaxing a little now, too,that he can see, can _feel_ , that I am.

We stand like this for a little while, things growing quiet between us. We're standing closer to each other now, even though we still aren't touching. Both of us quiet. Both of us thinking about the same thing, and both of us just not quite sure where to go from here.

"It wouldn't be legal," I finally say, watching for Spike's reaction to the words. Enjoying the pleased, almost shocked expression stealing over his features as he watches me shrug. "Pretty sure you don't exist in the eyes of law or anything."

"Know that," the vampire agrees with a nod, angling his body toward mine and stepping closer. His eyes are bright. "Don't rightly care one way or another." He pauses to bark a short laugh, cocking his head to the side. "Hell, long as I get to call you my wife at the end of it all Harris can be your bloody maid of honor."

I nod thoughtfully, stepping a little closer to him, the gap between us getting smaller and smaller by the second. I tilt my own head to the side mirroring him. "I thought you said no bridal party."

"Just makin' a point, pet," Spike purrs, his voice low and smooth, full lips curving up into a slow smil. That same way, that way he always does when he knows he's won.

"Not a very good one," I counter, reaching for him without giving it a second thought, hooking my arms around his waist. Spike chuckles in return, reaching for me, wrapping his long fingers around my upper arms and rubbing his hands slowly up and down my arms.

"Marry me, Buffy," he asks me on a whisper. Again, or maybe for the first time. I'm not sure. But the words have my entire body melting into his, my eyes riveted to his, searching them as ardently as they're searching mine. He pulls me closer to him, our noses almost touching, his thumbs rubbing soothing little circles into my upper arms. "Be my _wife_."

Hearing the word again, the label, combined with the way he's said it...it reminds me of something. Something soft and distant, like it's really far away. It takes me a little longer than it should to place it, but I'm having trouble thinking straight now. But I do remember. I do. That poem, the one he'd quoted, recited for me from memory the night we'd come clean to Mom about everything. There'd been a line in that poem, too, about a wife. _My true wife…_ And I'm thinking about that poem when I nod against him and answer the question.

"Yes."

We decide to keep the whole married decision to ourselves for a little while, along with the decision we'd made to move out of Mom's house once we're able to figure out whatever it is the Initiative wants and what they're even doing here. Both because now just doesn't seem like the right time to be bringing something so…. _fluffy_ up, and also because I still haven't decided how it is exactly I _want_ to bring it up. And it's funny how having this big secret, another type of big secret that feels like it's private, just for the two of us, seems to make being holed up in the house day in and day out seem a little bit easier. For a little while. After another day and a half of the "no news is good news" routine, though, I'm starting to get cabin fevery all over again. Spike and I spend one particularly fidgety day making a project out of clearing away old, unused crap in his basement room so we can have a place to spar. That helps, too. At least we're moving. At least we both sort of feel like we're doing something.

"I'll give the wanker one more day," Spike tells me now as we walk up the basement steps after an overly long sparring session. I glance toward him as we step into the kitchen, watching as he cradles the place on his jaw where I'd landed just a little too hard of roundhouse. "And then I'm joinin' this little search party of his, come hell or high water."

"You'll have to get in line," I grumble, reaching an arm up to wipe away the sheen of sweat over my forehead.

Mom turns to glance at us over her shoulder from where she's standing over the sink, rinsing dishes and stacking them over to the left in the drying rack. "Did you have a good workout?" she asks, directing the question at both of us, eyeing the way Spike's cradling his jaw with a furrowed brow.

"Hope you weren't wantin' to keep anythin' in those boxes labeled 'fragile', Joyce," my vampire says as he brushes past me, stepping up to the fridge and pulling out a bag of blood and a bottle of water, turning to toss the water toward me as he shuts the door. "Your daughter did those in, good and proper."

"Me?" I ask, staring at him with wide eyes, twisting off the cap on the water bottle and shaking me head. The tension that had left my muscles after our sparring session is inching it's way back, fusing into my shoulders and my neck the way it always does when we start to argue like this. " _You're_ the one who fell into them."

Spike shoots me a narrow eyed glance as he dumps the fresh blood into his Christmas mug, tosses the empty bag in the trash. "Only _fell_ into them," he says slowly, maneuvering expertly around Mom to reach the microwave and popping the mug inside, turning to point a finger back toward me. "because a certain Slayer doesn't know her own bloody strength."

I take another long sip of water, pulling the bottle away from my lips and twisting the cap back on. "You're just being a sore loser," I tell him, reaching my hands back to pull the heavy curtain of hair up off my neck.

Spike just smirks at me, leaning back against the counter and folding his arms up over his chest. "That might be true, _if_ I'd been the one who'd lost." He raises both eyebrows and tilts his head back in challenge just as the timer dings on the microwave.

I open my mouth immediately to say something, but Mom stops me.

"Honestly, you two," Mom says lightly, cutting me off before I can fire out my next response. She shakes her head as she glances between us. "You bicker like an old married couple." Mom laughs a little under her breath and turns her attention back toward the sink full of soapy water and dishes. Spike's eyes whip toward mine just as I go to look at him, and we exchange a knowing look. And when he raises his mug to his lips and winks at me, the tension in my shoulders melts away.

The doorbell rings.

"Oh, Buffy, that's probably the pizza," Mom says, turning to glance at me over her shoulder again, pulling her soapy wet hands out of the sink and reaching for a towel. "Will you get the door? There's cash in my wallet."

I nod, setting my water bottle down on the kitchen island and grabbing Mom's purse where it's sitting beside the telephone. Pulling her wallet out, grabbing the cash inside of it and putting it away, still listening to the conversation going on around me.

"You birds ever eat anythin' other than takeaway?" Spike is asking my mom now, eyeing her over the rim of his mug as he takes another sip of blood.

I can't see the expression on Mom's face as I leave the kitchen and head for the dining room,but I can imagine it when she says "I'm sure we would, if _someone_ hadn't managed to break my oven."

"Told you, that wasn't me," Spike insists, and though I can't hear exactly what it is Mom says in response, I know it's enough to draw a signature "Oi!" from my vampire.

I'm still laughing to myself, chuckling quietly under my breath as I round the corner and head into the foyer. I reach the door and twist the deadbolt, hand full of cash in one hand as I twist the metal knob and wrench the door open with the other.

And then I freeze.

Blinking up into the fading daylight, the last of the sun's rays forming a goldeny halo around the head and shoulders of the person standing in front of me. A person I don't think I actually thought I'd ever see again. Had sort of planned to never, ever see again.

Riley Finn.

My mouth runs dry as I look up at him, taking in the curve of his slow smile, the wave of hair that's grown back out and is flopping down in his face. Looking almost sheepish as he gazes down at me now and says "Hi, Buffy."


	42. Chapter 41

Riley. Riley Finn. On my porch. Standing on my porch with his hands i his pockets and this sheepish, unassuming grin and for a second I can't think. Can't remember why I feel like it's bad that he's here. I'm so thrown, so completely wigged out to see him just standing on my porch, and then the words are just…there. Tumbling past my lips before I can even think about stopping them. "What the hell are you doing here?"

The grin melts off his face in an instant and he takes a small step back, blinking. "A simple 'hi' would've been fine."

Clearly, he'd been expecting a much different response from me. Maybe I shouldn't have been quite so word-vomity.

"Uh, yeah," I stammer awkwardly, one hand braced on the door jamb and the other still gripping the knob so tightly my knuckles might actually pop out of the skin. "Sorry. It's just…" I wasn't expecting you. I don't really want you here. I don't know if I can trust you not to stake my vampire fiancé. "But really, what are you doing here?"

And how soon can I get rid of you? I think desperately, biting down hard on the inside of my cheek and willing the tangled knots in my stomach to go away before said vampire fiancé figures out I'm not exactly talking to the pizza guy and comes a-runnin'. Now would be a great time for that whole mind ready thing he does.

"Uh, well," he begins slowly, frowning at me, brow furrowed. Looking at me a little like I'm all aboard the crazy train. "I'm just back in town for a couple days. I was in the neighborhood…just thought I'd stop by."

He says it in a weird way. Lowering his voice, leaning in closer to me and widening his eyes. Like it's some sort of weird secret code or something, and I'm guessing by the look on his face I'm supposed to know what it means.

I don't.

Or I can't remember, if I do. Everything's sort of moving a million miles a minute right now.

I frown. "You just thought you'd stop by to…what?" I ask, consciously moving my body so I'm standing more fully in the doorway, closing the door a little. "Say hi? Play catch up? It's been months, Riley."

And I watch as his expression melts from open expectant, to furrowed and confused, and then finally to irritated. Or, ya know, as irritated as Riley can manage to look.

His face isn't all that expressive. "Sorry," he says huffily, pulling his hands out of his pockets and reaching one up to feather through his hair. "And here I thought you were the one who'd tried to contact me."

It's like someone's snapped their fingers.

In the panic, the utter wigginess that had been Riley Finn showing up unannounced on my front porch when I'd been fully expecting to open the door to cheesy, doughy goodness, I'd completely forgotten. Completely.

Those phone calls. He must have known, then…or figured it out…but how?

I never left a message.

"I never left a message," I tell him flatly, hackles up now. Wary. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and the knots in my stomach loosen a little, replaced by a sort of churning that's less anxious and more…aggressive. A wild, intense need to protect the people in the house behind me from the man in front of me that suddenly feels like a threat. I can't explain it, this feeling. It's primal.

I stand up a little straighter, blocking the doorway with all five feet, two inches I have.

Riley just keeps looking at me like he's never seen me before. "Voicemail isn't exactly how these secret government-op types work."

Hair. Back of neck. Majorly on end now.

I narrow my eyes and step through the open doorway, pushing Riley back further onto the porch and shutting the door softly behind me. Reaching my arms up to fold them across my chest, I clear my throat. "So you're—"

"Back with the government," he says simply, one short nod. "Yeah."

I notice that he uses the word government specifically. Purposefully. And suddenly, everything about this interaction we're having seems too calculated. It's been months, sure, but it might as well have been years for everything that's changed since the last time we'd seen each other. Long gone is that sheepish, goofy smile from when I'd first opened the door. The almost shy tilt of his head. He's looking down at me with cool, watchful eyes, his lips forming a thin line.

I don't trust him, but I'm getting the definite vibe that he doesn't trust me either. And at the risk of tipping him off, of showing him my hand and laying all the cards flat across the table, I exhale and ask, "The Initiative?"

A flash of real, genuine surprise passes over his features and he backs up another step. "The government shut the Initiative down, Buffy. You know that."

I know what you told me.

"Right," I say, feeling like I've showed him as much of my hand as I'm ready to at this point. "Government shutdown. Must've slipped my mind." I pause, frowning, every inch of my body still on high alert. He'd said top secret government ops. If it's not the Initiative he's with, "Then what—"

He reads my mind, answering me before I can even finish the question. "I'm with a different special ops unit."

Because that doesn't scream there's something fishy going on here. I raise an eyebrow at him, tightening my arms. "Can you give me a little more to go on?"

We're still feeling each other out, I think. Both of us slightly on edge that weird, primal feeling in my gut still slowly churning away. Like it's just waiting for an excuse to let loose, for him to make a move, any move. And it's funny, or scary, I can't quite decide which…that there's a part of me, a small, dark part of me, that kind of wants him to.

A small, dark, demony part of me.

Riley's posture relaxes a little and he tilts his head to the side, eyes glued to mine. "I can tell you we're more interested in the plain, old fashioned killing of demons than we are in studying them."

The churning flares, burns a little hotter and my nails reflexively dig into the skin of my bare arms. Thinking of Spike. Thinking of the chip, and how incredibly painful it had been when it fired. How incredibly painful I'd felt it be. A muzzle, that's what the chip was. An excruciatingly painful muzzle. And according to Spike's stories, that hadn't even been the worst of it.

I level Riley with a knowing look, both eyebrows raised. "Experimenting on them, you mean?"

Another brief flash of surprise in Riley's eyes at what I've said, or maybe how I've said it. His brow furrows and he looks like he's going to ask me a question, and then a second later the cool expression falls back in place. "Look, could we maybe…go inside?" he asks, deciding not to ask whatever question I'd seen in his eyes. "Your front porch doesn't seem like the best place to be having this conversation."

Instantly, I'm on edge again. Inside. Inside the house. Inside the house where Mom and Dawn and Spike are. Spike. Riley's words ring in my ears, the churning bubbling higher, spreading up into my chest as they do.

"We're more interested in the plain, old fashioned killing of demons…"

It might not be rational, this jump I'm making. But being rational is the least of my worries, is the last thing on my mind as my blood starts to boil at the thought of this man getting anywhere near my vampire. I drop my hands down to my sides and step forward, urged on by that same primal force I don't quite understand and automatically forcing Riley to take a step back. "Go inside to what?" I ask, looking at him through narrowed eyes, my voice very low.

He blinks down at me, frowning. That same who even are you look on his face. "Talk?" he tells me slowly, like he's explaining something to a little kid. His eyes widen. "So you can tell me whatever it is that's got you feeling twitchy enough to reach out to me in the first place?"

"Talk," I repeat flatly, my voice still low. A little like I don't believe him, even though I know, logically, he's given me no reason not to.

But I can't afford to take the risk, and that part of me, the small, dark, blood boily part of me knows it.

"Is this a bad time?" Riley asks, reading the expression on my face as hesitance, maybe. He glances past my shoulder and squints like maybe we can see into the house through the three small windows on the door. "You have company or something?"

I force my hands to relax, force my fingers to uncurl from the fists they've balled themselves into and take a deep, steadying breath.

"Or something." I exhale, letting the air out, long and slow through pursed lips and trying to think of where to go from here. Because he's right. I did contact him, and I do sort of need to talk to him, see if there's anything he knows that could help us. But we're not doing that here. There's no way, none, zip, nada, that I'm letting him anywhere near Spike. At least not until I know for sure there's no chance of stakeage on Riley's part.

Both because, obviously, Spike. But also because I honestly don't know what I'd do to him if he tried.

I turn my eyes back to his and force a smile onto my face for the first time since opening the door, lightbulb going on. "Could we maybe meet at the Magic Box instead? I'm sure Giles would love to see you," I lie.

"Oh. Okay." Riley frowns like this isn't what he'd been expecting either. His eyes drop to the smile on my lips, then back to my eyes. "That's fine. Now? Or…"

I shake my head, ask "Give me an hour?" I need a little time to plan. Call Giles, fill him in. He's not going to like it, me letting myself out of house arrest, but I don't really care.

In front of me, Riley nods. "An hour. Sure." I watch with relief, and just a little more of the swirling, feral thing in my stomach as he turns to leave. He gets halfway down the steps, pauses, turns back around. "Hey, Buffy?"

"Yeah?" I ask, itching to turn around and get back inside. I can feel Spike again, now that my own emotions aren't being all hugely overwhelming. I can feel what feels like concern, and a little of the familiar possessiveness I've grown so used to in the last couple weeks. Weird, though. I realize the possessiveness from him feels an awful lot like that primal, feral churning I'd been feeling a second ago. It started fizzling out as soon as Riley'd started walking away.

"Are you okay?" He asks me, his eyes searching my face as he does. "You seem…different."

You have no idea, I think wryly, reaching out across the connection, doing that floody thing and trying to soothe the anxiousness I feel coming from the vampire's end.

"See you in an hour," I say simply, turning around and disappearing back into the house, shutting and dead bolting the door behind me.

I glance back over my shoulder at Spike, feeling him come up behind me even though I can't see him in the mirror. "Don't do that," I say, turning around to face the mirror again, finishing pulling my hair back into a ponytail and securing it with a rubber band.

"Do what?" Spike asks blithely.

I pull the rubber band tight and turn around, pushing myself to my feet so I'm standing in front of him. "That," I say, point my finger at him. "Look at me like that and do the hands on your hips thing." I step around him and head for my open closet, reaching up to grab my coat.

There's the familiar sound of swishing, swirling leather, and I know Spike's turned around to face me. "And how am I lookin' at you?"

The same way he's been looking at me since I came back inside after sending Riley away. Since I told him my plan.

"Like you think I'm an idiot," I tell him. I pull my jacket on and yank the long end of my pony tail out of the collar, turning to face him. "I'm not an idiot."

Spike widens his eyes and nods once, eyebrows arching high as if to say oh, really. "Care to tell a fella why you're actin' like one, then?"

I roll my eyes up, not in the mood to hash or re-hash or whatever this same fight we've somehow managed to have twice already. Still, I find myself repeating my side fluidly. "Because it wouldn't have been idiotic to invite him into the house we're living in together?" Talk about laying all your cards on the table.

And right on cue, Spike's same rebuttal. "Least then I could've kept an eye on him."

I bark a short laugh and fold my arms over my chest, but I'm so far from being amused it comes out sounding bitter. "Why do I feel like this is jealous vamp speaking and not logic vamp?"

"Because you're clearly off your bleeding box," the vamp in question replies, cocking his head to the side and fluttering his lashes at me.

We stare hard at each other for a minute before I sigh, dropping my arms as I do and tilting my own head to the side. Forcing my irritation down in the hopes it'll diffuse this whole thing once again.

A moment later and Spike drops his hands away from his hips with a sigh, giving a little head flick to indicate he wants me to come toward him.

Softening instantly, I step toward him, hands reaching for and finding the sharp angles of his hipbones, sliding them around until my arms are wrapped loosely around his waist beneath his duster. "It's just one meeting," I remind him, tipping my head back so I can see his face. "On our turf, and Giles will be there, too. We've gotta find out if he knows anything. It could finally give us the answers we need."

Spike tilts his own head down toward mine until our foreheads are touching and his eyes are burning into mine. He smells like winter wind and smoke. "And it could be a bloody trap."

"I'm the one that suggested meeting there," I say, disentangling my arms from around him and pulling away.

My vampire scoffs, catching my hand in his just as I'm about to pull it off his waist. "And it bein' your suggestion somehow means White Bread's intentions are on the up and up?"

And, here we go again. "Spike," I groan.

He presses on, undaunted. "I'm not tellin' you anythin' those Slayer instincts of yours don't already know." I open my mouth to deny it, but he silences me by widening his eyes knowingly. He's already felt it, exactly what m instincts had been telling me on the porch. I snap my mouth shut again. "Don't be lettin' that farm boy routine fool you again, pet."

"I'n not, I—" I break off mid-sentence, pausing and frowning at him. This part of the argument's new, at least. "Again?"

It's Spike's turn to clamp his mouth shut.

And we'll most definitely be coming back to that later.

For now, though, I shake my head and shove the word aside. My cheeks are getting hot all over again. "Weren't you the one that suggested I try and get a hold of him in the first place?"

"Mmm, no," Spike mutters, his hands back on his hips, pulling the duster slightly away from his body. "That'd be your birk of a Watcher."

This earns him a very sardonic eyebrow raise. Something else I've learned about Spike over the past couple weeks on hour arrest? He has this whole selective memory thing going. "Pretty sure you had something to say about it, too."

Caught, Spike sputters indignantly. "Yeah, well, since when do you listen to me?"

And with this, we've arrived at what Spike had called our "impasse". Guess what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immoveable object? A whole lot of chest heaving and glaring.

We stand here like this, staring at each other for another long minute more before his hand tightens around mine. With a chesty growl, he uses his grip to tug me back to him, nuzzling against my cheek, lips at my ear. "You can't go alone, Buffy. Please," he breathes earnestly. "Don't know what kind of nasties might be waitin' for you out there."

The irony strikes me as surprisingly funny. That we've honestly found ourselves here, Big Bad warning his delicate little Slayer mate about all the things that go bump in the night when he'd been one of those things so not that long ago.

I pull slightly away from him, looking up into stormy navy blue. They always get dark like this when we argue. "I am still the Slayer, ya know. Super strength, super speed." I reach my free hand up to poke him lightly in the chest. "Kicked your ass a time or two. Ring any bells?"

Spike responds with another low growl, eyes darkening further. "Don't make me sodding beg."

I sigh, letting Spike turn his hand around so that our fingers meet, weave together. "Fine. I'll call Xander and have him go with." I squeeze his hand. "Better?"

Spike narrows his eyes and bites out a sarcastic sounding "Loads."

"You're not coming," I say, voice dismissive as I start to tug my hand out of his. "We've been over this."

He lets me go and I can feel his irritation starting to flare and flutter again. "Maybe we should go over it again, then."

Fine.

"I told you. I don't want you to even be the itty bittiest of blips on Riley's radar until I know more about this new special ops thingy. He said he's still in the demon killing business, Spike. Last I checked, you?" I raise an eyebrow and point at him. "Still a demon."

And I see it happen. The second he makes the decision, the switch, changing tactics. The flash in his eyes, the little spark. Oh, yeah, I see it. Feel it. I know it's coming.

I watch him, fully prepared as he takes a predatory step toward me, tilting his head to the side and lowering his voice to that rumbly purr that never fails to shoot little sparks over my skin. "But a devilishly handsome demon."

I let out a weird little sound, half laugh and half snort, and shake my head at him. "You're unbelievable."

And there's the smirk. "I am indeed, but you already knew that…" his long lashes sweep down to my toes, then slowly back up. "Didn't you?"

And…there's the tongue curl.

I'm stuck, like I always am when he pulls this crap. Torn somewhere between knowing full well what he's doing, and why he's doing it, and the instant, moth-to-flame reaction my body has to his. Blood starting to rush and swirl in my veins, pulling me toward him on some unseen string. My cheeks are hot again but it's not the same kind of heat. My fingers start to twitch, the heat spreading down.

"Stay here," Spike murmurs, his lips finding my ear just as his hands find my hips. My lashes flutter. "Stay with me." Another little nuzzle, a flick of his tongue over the sensitive skin below my ear. A sharp inhale, I can't tell if it's mine or his, when his grip tightens and he pulls me flush against him. "Let Giles handle Captain Cardboard." His lips trail a path from my ear to my jaw, from my jaw to my neck, and he releases one of my hips to raise his hand up and pull the collar of my coat away to close his mouth over his mark and sucks. Hard.

My eyes fly open and a strangled, gasping, groaning sound escapes my lips, immediately breaking the spell he's woven.

"Hoo-kay," I breathe, using the hand I've somehow managed to tangle in his hair to wrench his lips away from me. "Alright, seducto-boy. What's really going on here?"

Not that I don't totally enjoy it when he gets all grabby and seductive like this. Normally. But when something this massive is going on, it's just a little too wiggy.

And manipulative.

And verging on desperate.

I frown, searching his dark eyes with mine. This isn't just about winning an argument. Not like it usually is. And it isn't about jealousy, either.

When it doesn't look like he's going to answer me, I move my hand out his hair and down to cup his cheek.

"I can't read your mind," I remind him, wishing for the millionth time that I could.

Spike sighs, letting go of my coat's collar and straightening up, keeping his other hand on my waist and looking away from me. "We've been together twenty-four bloody seven for the past two weeks. Haven't had to let you out of my sight once. So, yeah," he says, turning his eyes back to mind. "The thought of splittin' up is just…" I watch him struggle for the words, jaw clenching. "I'm just…oh, bloody hell. I'm…"

I know the word he's looking for before he does. Or maybe I just recognize the feeling before he does.

I swallow, supplying softly "Scared?"

"Fuckin' terrified," Spike admits on an exhale, his eyes glued to mine. "To let you go. To not be with you. To…be stuck here just waitin'. Waitin' to feel if somethin' goes wrong." He inhales sharply, voice lowering. "That I'll be too bloody late if somethin' does."

So, yeah, I'd been right. It isn't logic making him fight me so hard. It isn't logic, but it isn't jealousy either. I guess fear's as powerful a motivator as anything.

Isn't it fear that's motivating me? What's keeping me from letting Spike come? What had made me steer Riley into anywhere but here territory earlier?

"I don't…" I start to say, but stop when I realize I don't know what I don't. Don't think he should be worried? Don't think he should let fear overcome logic? Don't think his concerns are valid? None of that's true.

"Last couple'a times we went out nearly saw you endin' up dead," Spike's saying now, like an after thought. Like I haven't spoken at all. He reaches up and pulls my hand away from his cheek.

"But…" I frown, confused. "Both of those times we were together."

The vampire chuckles humorlessly. "'S my point."

Oh.

I see it then. His point. What it is he's saying without saying it at all.

What if I hadn't been there?

No wonder he's feeling desperate. If it were flipped, if Spike was going to meet Riley instead of me and holing me up at home, I'd be feeling desperate too.

I take a deep breath. "Xander will come right to the door, walk me to the car, park right in front of the Magic Box and walk me safely inside," I promise, reaching down and taking his hand back in mine. "Okay? No walking through cemeteries or down back alleys for me."

Spike isn't amused. His eyes flash, darkening again. "Slayer," he growls.

But this is one argument he won't win. I won't let him. No matter what tactics he resorts to.

Because I'm terrified, too.

"No," I say, my voice hardening, lips pursed. I let go of his hand. "The decisions been made. I'm going, I will be fine, end of discussion."

I don't mean to, but I use that voice. The one we'd agreed not to. Immediately, my eyes go wide, but Spike either already knows that it was an accident or he's just as tried of arguing over this as I am, because all he does is sigh, shoulders sagging.

"Stubborn bint," he grumbles, half under his breath. Then, louder, "What happened to listenin' to me?"

I move away from him now, moving toward the edge of the bed where I left my favorite pair of ass-kicker boots. "I am listening, I'm just not doing what you're telling me to do." I pick up one boot and slide it on, lifting my pant leg to raise the zipper. "I haven't promised to obey you yet, pal." I slip the other boot on, zipping it and smoothing my pants back down over it.

I look up to see Spike watching me, eyes suddenly all soft, the hint of an expression that might be described as dreamy on his face.

"Is this obey as in…'honor and obey'?" He asks me, and his lips twitch up into a coy smile when my eyes go wide and he knows he's caught me. Okay, so, wedding vows. I might've looked them up.

I blink up at him as he looks down at me, his long lashes fanning across pale, angled cheeks. "You a bit of a traditionalist at heart, luv?"

I shake my head at him and push myself up to my feet. "Don't get all excited. I was just making a point."

I don't bother to mention I'd looked them up for him.

He smirks at me. "Course you were." His expression clouds again as I give him a look and move past him, moving toward my bedroom door. "Still think it's an unnecessary risk, you goin' at all."

I stop with my hand on the doorknob, turning back around with a soft sigh and putting a small smile on my lips. "It'll be totally fine. An hour, tops. In and out." I tilt my head to the side, beseeching him with my eyes to just, please, let it go. "It's just Riley."

I don't actually know if I'm saying it to placate him or if I actually mean it.

"And you trust him?" He asks, pretending he doesn't already know the answer to that particular question. That he hadn't felt it before.

I shrug. "He hasn't given me a reason not to." He opens his mouth to say something and I reach my hand out to stop him, palm out. "Trust me, I'm going into this completely guard-up girl. Hope for the best, expect the worst."

This almost seems to amuse him. He rocks back on his heels, arms folded over his chest. "And the worst in this little scenario of yours?"

The answer comes immediately. "Riley's still working for the Initiative, this whole thing is a setup, it's actually me they've been after this whole time and I'm about to walk right into a trap."

The amusement vanishes.

Spike frowns at me. "Awfully glib there, luv," he murmurs, voice low.

I wrinkle my nose up. "Did you miss that whole hope for the best thing?"

"S'pose I should do the same, then. Hope for the best but prepare for the worst…" he trails off, and something dark passes over his face then. Dark and…hungry. It's a look I know well. A look I've seen before too many times to count. The same look I'd seen on his face the first night I met him.

Murderous. That's what it is. This time, though, it isn't for me.

The air catches in my lungs as he looks at me, pinning me to the spot with flashing eyes that might as well be hypnotic.

And that churning from earlier on the porch is back. The feral feeling, the pulse of my blood as it picks up in my veins and rushes in my ears, making my head light because this time, it's not mine.

"If he hurts you…" Spike all but snarls, his dangerously low, eyes darkening more by the second. "If he lays one bloody finger on you, even thinks about touching you. If he so much as looks at you the wrong way, I'll kill him."

My throat runs dry, and I'm frozen.

Most of the time, it's so easy, so freaking easy to forget exactly what Spike is. Even though I know, even though I'm even the one who'd glibly reminded him of the fact tonight, it's easy to forget. Not because he tries to hide it, but because every other part of him seems so much more real to me. The attentive lover. The hint of Victorian gentleman. The smart, sarcastic sparring partner. The supportive friend. I've seen him play these parts time and time again over the past few month, molding and shifting and effortlessly becoming whatever it is I've needed him to be. Especially recently. Here, locked away in our own little air tight bubble. I mean, sure, it hasn't exactly been fun…but it's been safe. This is the first time, I realize now, staring at the vampire in front of me who right now is every inch a vampire, that we've been face to face with a threat like this.

The first time since almost losing each other at Christmas. The first time since the chip came out. I'd seen the man's reaction to the threat earlier.

This is the demon's reaction I'm seeing now.

"I mean it." His eyes flash golden, and it hits me all at once. Hard, square in the chest. Full fledged, demony possessiveness. Fierce and protective and just barely, barely, controlled. The swirling, burning in my gut flares hot. "I'll rip his throat out and drain him dry." He tips his head forward and lowers his voice meaningfully. "And I can now."

I think maybe in the back of my mind I'd known we'd have to do this. Talk about this. Deal with it, one way or another. The chip being gone and Spike being very much of the non-soul having variety. We'd been able to put it off because of the house arrest, I think. And the coma, and the memory loss and the nearly dying. And I also think we hadn't wanted to deal with it. Or at least I hadn't. Not until we absolutely, on hundred and ten percent, hands down had to. Waiting for the right moment or something stupid like that.

I guess Spike's picked this moment.

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask him hoarsely, pushing the words out past my dry throat, my suddenly equally dry lips. "And now?"

Now, when I have to leave. I have to leave and he knows I have to leave, and is that why? When I have to leave and deal with Riley and possibly be walking into a trap, where things could go very, very badly and oh God, that's why.

That's why he's doing this now.

Spike reads my mind. "Because you need to sodding well know it might come to that," he says, stepping toward me, cheeks hollowed and jaw ticking. "And not just with Finn either, though I can't tell you how much I'd enjoy that." I blink at him, still frozen, lashes fluttering wildly. "I'm talkin' about the whole buggering lot of 'em."

I do my best to ignore the churning in my gut, threatening to wind it's way up and into my chest. My skin is tingling and hot and stretched too thin and I'm having trouble thinking, trying to form questions, coherent sentences.

And I thought it was bad when the feeling was mine. Is this how Spike felt earlier? "The whole buggering lot of…" I trail off, eyes going wide as I manage to put two and two together. "Are we talking about the Initiative now?" Spike rolls his shoulders back, nods once. I push myself off the door and step toward him. "The same Initiative we don't even know Riley's a part of anymore?"

Spike, undaunted by my approach, holds his ground. Coolly, he says, "'S two different issues though, innit? Your wonder bread ex might not be in on whatever's goin' down here, pet, but somethin' is goin' down and you and I both know those government wankers are behind it." He pauses like he's going to catch his breath, opens his mouth to start talking again, stops. His eyes soften just a little as he looks down at me, and when he speaks his voice is quiet. "There's gonna be a fight. If it comes to that, and it will, I need to know you understand."

That I understand. That I understand if it comes down to a fight and he systematically kills and drains dry every single "buggering" soldier, scientist and flunky the Initiative has to offer up.

I stare up into his face, glittering midnight blue eyes flecked with residual gold, and have to fight the urge to reach out grab him. Dig my nails into his arms and shake him as hard as I can. Tell him he's being insane. Remind him that people are people, no matter how evil they might be. Ethan Rayne. Ethan Rayne was evil and I couldn't kill him, even after he'd tried to kill Giles, to kill me more than once.

And then there's another side of me that rears up, pokes it's head up and whispers to me that somewhere deep down I know he's right. That the Initiative is just as evil as any other evil I've faced, if not a slightly different kind. That if it does come to a fight, the only option would be to take them all out. Clearly, full scale government shutdowns don't work. I don't know why his argument seems so suddenly, incredibly reasonable to me right now.

I force the deep, dark little whisper back down and shake my head, clearing it. "What do you want from me, Spike? Permission? You won't get it," I tell him matter-of-factly, opening my eyes a little wider. "They're people."

It's as much to remind myself as it is to remind him.

His flash again, and he raises his voice to a half shout. "People who are tryin' to hurt you, Buffy. They're a threat to you and the demon won't stand for it." He does reach for me now, wrapping long, strong fingers tight around my arms and giving me one short shake. "And whether that little bit of you that's still so fucking self-righteous wants to admit it or not, you know it as well as I do."

So, there's my answer. Yes. He'd absolutely felt what I had earlier on the porch. Knows the truth of what he's saying as well as I do. So it had been my demon, then. I'd considered it before, just after I'd come back inside, that that's what it was. That part of me that's directly connected to Spike, where that primal, fierce desire to protect him had come from.

I shove it back one more time, letting my vampire grip me tightly, looking unwaveringly into his eyes. "Are you asking me if I'd kill for you?" I ask, my voice shockingly steady. "Kill a human?"

"Don't need to ask, luv." His grip loosens again, and he cocks his head to the side to level me with a knowing stare. "I already know."

My stomach clenches and rolls, a sharp wave of nausea rising up against the churning I've already tried to squelch down. Not because he's wrong, but because he's right. I know he's right and I haven't wanted to have to think about it.

I tear myself out of his grasp and stumble backwards, eyes wide, completely unsure where my emotions end and his begin. Eyes suddenly stinging, vision blurred. I don't even know why.

"So, what?" I ask hotly, my own voice raising in volume. "You're planning to massacre the entire Initiative once we find them and you just want me to sit back and watch? Spike, I can't…" But I can. I can and I would, if it meant he'd be safe from them for good. Crying out, exasperated, feeling like I can't trust my own thoughts I shout "That doesn't make any sense!"

Spike's response is immediate.

"Christ, look around you, Buffy." He opens his arms out wide for emphasis, duster whipping around him as he does. "None of this makes any bleeding sense."

We both freeze then, staring at each other. Chests heaving, breathing ragged and perfectly in synch. The sound of it fills up the space around us until that and the blood rushing in my ears is all I can hear. And I almost don't think we're even arguing about the Initiative anymore. I mean, we are. I know we are. But this is getting to be about something so much bigger. The very nature of the connection itself, and what it means for us.

I force myself to calm down, steady my breathing. I drop my eyes away from Spike's because he's making it impossible for me to think straight. Reigning in all my panic, all my confusion and stuffing it forcibly back down, I reach a hand up and smooth my hair back, tucking imaginary whips of hair behind my ears. "We need to be logical about this."

"This isn't logic, pet. This is blood." He splays his hand across his chest, over his heart, reminding me of another time. Another night. Another argument, lifetimes ago. "This is connection. This is wild, irrational need to…" He trails off, narrowing his eyes and shaking his head. "God, can't you feel it?"

Can I feel it? It's a completely ridiculous question. He knows I can. Knows as well as I do. The fierce desire to protect him at any cost…I've never felt anything so singularly in my entire life.

But that doesn't make it right.

"Is this about the chip?" I ask suddenly, immediately wishing I hadn't when I see the look on Spike's face.

He reels back like I've just slapped him. "What?"

I inhale deeply and let the air out. "Is this whole protective demony claim thing you're talking about just an excuse to get some kind of twisted revenge on the people that tortured you?"

His eyes narrow and he sucks in his cheeks, jaw clenched. "It feel that way to you?"

We stare at each other for another long minute, and I don't have to say it out loud for him to know the answer.

No.

"So your demon's gonna be all off with their heads to anyone who threatens me, cause I'm your mate. It's a demon thing. Fine," I say, packing that piece away as stone-cold fact and trying to move on, to wrap my head around why all of a sudden his demon, our demons, are making their presence so forcefully known. "Why are you so quick to give it what it wants now?"

Spike's expression shifts from barely restrained rage to bemusement, brow furrowing.

"It's been weeks since you made with the big brain surgery," I explain, gesturing absently toward his head. "What's with the bloodlust now? As soon as Riley rolls back into town? Your demon's been doing just fine drinking the pig's blood in the fridge."

Spike scoffs, barks a laugh, and the sound makes my skin tighten again. He leans toward me and lowers his voice, dark eyes boring into mine. "My demon's been clawin' to get out ever since I came back to myself and realized the chip was gone, Buffy."

I freeze again.

So yeah, this talk? So about more than tonight's meeting with Riley. About more than the Initiative. It might've started out that way, but this…this is so much bigger.

This is what I'd been dreading. The reason I'd been putting it off.

"You think I haven't bloody thought about it?" He asks me, narrowing his eyes. "Thought about how easy it'd be to sneak out while you're sleepin'? Nip downtown, stalk the shadows like the good old days." I watch him numbly as he whirls away from me and starts to pace, up and down my bedroom. "Wouldn't be hard to find someone. Pick up a homeless bloke, o-or a drunk. Pop back here and crawl in bed before you even noticed I was missin'." He laughs, and it's this high-pitched, almost hysteric sound. He glances toward me briefly before immediately looking away. "Know exactly what it means, not havin' that sodding chip in my skull." Then quietly, under his breath, to himself. "Still a vampire, yeah?"

He stops pacing, his body angled toward mine but his head down, eyes glazing over as he focuses on a spot on the carpet.

Words. There aren't any. I can't find them.

Somehow, this knowledge shocks me. I don't know why, don't know how he would have managed to keep this from me. Can't fathom how I wouldn't have felt…unless I just didn't want to feel it. Pretended it wasn't there. Pushed it to the back of my mind like everything else so I could just put off dealing with it for one more day.I think maybe I'd thought if I never brought it up it'd just stay buried. I hadn't realized he could have been feeling like this all along, thinking about it so actively.

Would it really be as easy as he says? To sneak out and take a life, come back into our bed and pretend it never happened?

If that's the case... "Then why—"

"Shame on you," Spike says, cutting me off mid-thought, his voice still very soft as he shifts his eyes back to mine. They're still dark, gleaming in the lamp light of my bedroom. He inhales deeply, shaking his head as he lets the air back out through his nose. "Shame on you, my love, if you have to ask me that question."

I don't have to ask. I hadn't even meant to start.

Of course I don't have to ask, because I already know why. Why he'd fight so hard against the bloodlust. Why he'd keep the bloodlust from me in the first place.

And I know because I love him. Because I need him. Because if I'm honest with myself I knew this was coming all along. Knew it had to have been. He might make it easy to forget what his baser nature is, but that doesn't mean I ever _do_. i know what Spike is, the same way I know what I am. I also know that him admitting all this to me is as hard for him to do as it is for me to hear, and for none of the reasons I would have thought. It's harder for me to hear him in pain than it is to come to grips with the truth of what he's saying. Because I know fully and intimately _who_ he is, not just what.

A monster and a man. Both of them and neither of them at once, simultaneously, all the time. One doesn't outweigh the other, not really. Not with Spike.

There's an exception to every rule.

Whatever it is Spike's waiting for me to say, whatever he's expecting, it's not what I say next.

"I love you," I whisper, and his eyes widen slightly, lashes fluttering like maybe he hasn't heard me correctly. So I just nod, holding my ground. "I…that means all of you."

His expression softens further and the glowy, tingling warmth picks up between us as he angles his body toward mine. Eyes fixed on my face, scanning it, searching for something and colored in something that looks a lot like awe. "Buffy."

He steps toward me, but I put my hand out to stop him and drop my gaze to the floor. I need to get all this out. I need to say it, ask it, work through it out loud and I can't think straight when he gets too close to me. I need the clarity and the space. "Do you think of me as your conscience?" I finally ask, slowly turning my eyes back toward his.

There's a beat.

Spike sighs.

Then, "Not just you, though, is it? Have your mum to consider. And the Niblet." He chuckles darkly, tilting his head to the side. "And those ruddy mates of yours who'd sooner stab a piece of firewood through my chest than look me in the eye."

I frown at him. "You're saying you want to kill people but you won't because my friends might get mad?"

"No," he says slowly, taking the step toward me I'd prevented him from taking a moment ago. "I'm sayin'…it's all in here. The demon and what it wants. What's left of the man, and what he…and me. The thing somewhere in between all that. That little spark of humanity you buggerin' went and lit up inside that one part of me loathes and the other part cherishes." He pauses then, eyeing me through his lashes, the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips. "Angelus told me this, o'course. Both me and Dru, why he hated you so bloody much. Said you made him feel human."

"I make you feel human?" I ask quietly, only half-way realizing the mention of Angelus has had hardly any impact on me at all. I'm too busy looking at the vampire across from me and loving him so much it actually kind of frightens me, for the first time ever. Frightens me because of what it means, what it could mean. The things loving him this much could lead to. Thinking of all that and choosing to believe that all those scary things won't happen because we won't let them.

And Spike's talking again.

"No, sweetheart." He shakes his head and steps a little closer to me. "More like you make me feel…" He stops, thinks about it, chuckles to himself and rolls his eyes. "Bloody hell, I dunno. I'm not explainin' this right. Lost in translation, or what-all." He waves a hand dismissively.

"I just have one question," I tell him, meeting his eyes and holding. We're only about a foot away from each other now. He nods. I take a deep breath. "If something were to…happen. To me," I clarify. "Would you go back to killing people?"

My vampire nods again, more slowly this time, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and biting down on it. He mulls it over, then tilts his head to the side and murmurs, "You want the long or short answer?"

I shrug, thinking back to the impending meeting with Riley and Giles. The reason we'd started in on this whole shebang in the first place. "Don't have much time."

Instantly. "No."

I blink, surprised. Not by the answer, but how immediate it had come. And by how much I can feel he _means_ it. "Why?"

Spike clicks his tongue at me. "That'd be the long answer." And then he closes the space between us, too quickly for me to stop him again. His hands are on my face, holding me just a little too tightly. "If anythin' were to happen to _you_ , luv, how long you think I'd last?" He leans closer to me, raising his eyebrows pointedly like he's actually waiting for me to answer. "Bout as long as it'd take the sun to rise the next morning."

My chest tightens painfully. "Don't you dare," I hiss, eyes blazing.

Spike just smiles at me. "Topic for another time, pet." He leans forward and kisses me, soft and sweet and quick. A little smacking sound when he pulls away. "Gonna be late."

"Oh." Right. The meeting thing.

"Just…think about what I said," he says softly, letting go of my face and reaching around me to twist the doorknob, pulling the door open for me. I move to step around him, nodding slowly, reaching up to pull my ponytail tight again. Just as I step past him he snags me by the back of my coat, leans in and whispers in my ear. "And for bloody's sake, be careful."


	43. Chapter 42

I don't feel good about this.

Actually, I feel really, really bad. Uneasy. A little sick to my stomach. And my head is still spinning, trying to wrap itself around the conversation Spike and I'd had in my bedroom. All the things he told me, things he'd been hiding, fighting so hard to keep to himself. Not just what he'd said, but the things I'd felt. On the porch with Riley, and again coming from Spike. Single-minded aggression, fierce protective desire.

I'm still not sure which had wigged me more, his or mine. Both, maybe, for different reasons.

In the driver's seat beside me, Xander taps his fingers on the steering wheel but doesn't say anything. Hasn't said anything to me at all since he'd picked me up a few minutes ago.

And I'm glad. I don't have anything to say, not in the mood for small talk and just about big talked out.

But Xander is still Xander. Can't sit still for longer than five minutes at a time, and can't sit quiet for even less.

"So," he begins slowly, and I glance toward him as he shifts his eyes sideways at me. "Why not have Captain Peroxide be your escort tonight?"

Why does it seem like the answer to that is so obvious to me while everyone else is struggling with it?

"It doesn't make sense for both of us to go," I say simply, turning back to face forward. Watching out the windshield as the houses pass by, street lamps flicker in and out of view.

Xander sighs. "I'm sure it should be obvious but I'll ask anyway. Why's that?"

"The short answer?" I glance toward him again, eyebrow raised. "I don't want my vampire to fit in an ashtray."

He smiles wryly at me and asks, "And the long?"

It's my turn to sigh. Leaning back into the car seat, tilting my head against the upholstered headrest, I start to explain. "This is still us we're talking about, Xander. You know there's a fifty/fifty chance I'm walking myself right into some Initiative laid trap." I let my head loll to the side so I can see my friend's profile. "And if it is I'm not just going to hand them both of us that easily." Which is only part of the reason, and I know it. Know it but just don't feel on hundred percent ready to admit it. More like one hundred and ten percent not ready to deal with it.

I turn my head forward again and sit up. "Besides, until I figure out why it is exactly Riley's back I'm not putting him and Spike in the same room. It's not safe."

And that's true, too. It's not safe. It's not safe for any of us. I've said those words once before. Another time, another place, the same enemy. It's as true now as it was then.

"Not safe for who?" Xander asks me, turning onto Main Street. "Spike?"

"Or Riley," I add absently, my voice going soft as I turn to look out the window.

I feel rather than see Xander nod, understanding. Thinking he's understanding. "Because the shock collar's gone."

"Something like that," I half lie, keeping my eyes trained on the storefronts outside the car as we pass them by.

Because if I'm honest, it isn't Spike I'm worried about. Well, it is but it isn't. And it isn't Riley, either. It's me. I'm not worried about Spike trying to kill Riley even though I should be. He'd told me as much in bedroom. In fact he'd used those exact words. And I'm not worried about Riley trying to stake Spike.

I'm worried about what happens when and if he does. Try. I'm worried about what I'll do. Remembering that feeling again now, that churning in my gut. The twitching in my fingers, itching to reach out and physically stop anything, anyone, that could even remotely be considered a threat to my vampire. My mate.

It hadn't been a lie, the reason I'd told Spike he couldn't come. I had been more concerned with his safety than mine. I had wanted to make sure we weren't just walking in and handing the Initiative what they've been looking for.

But I'd wanted to keep him away from Riley, too. Wanted to keep the scenario that's running through my head on a horrific, animalistic, gory loop from even being a possibility.

Selfish, maybe. Stupid, probably. Irrational…I'm honestly not sure.

And I'm not in any hurry to find out.

"And what about you?" Xander asks me now, cutting through my thoughts, putting the loop on pause.

"I'm not worried about me." Because I'm not. Not the way he's meaning, at least.

And we pull up in front of the Magic Box, the car coming to a steady stop along the curb nearest the front door.

My friend sighs and puts the car in park, turning toward me. "You never are."

I offer him a wide smile, but it feels fake. Maybe that doesn't matter. "Not really my style," I tell him, unbuckling my seat belt.

"Yeah, yeah," he grumps good-naturedly, gripping the steering wheel with his left hand as he looks at me meaningfully. A beat. Then, his voice lower, "Just be careful, Buff."

"I will," I promise him, reaching for the door handle and popping it up, pushing the door open with one booted foot and stepping out onto the sidewalk. I pause halfway out of the car, twisting back around to look at him over my shoulder. "Hey, Xand?"

"Yeah?"

I think about it for a second, pulling my bottom lip into my mouth and nibbling down on it before releasing it and asking, "Will you go back to the house? Check in." I make a face at him, wrinkling my nose a little. "Make sure no one's doing anything they shouldn't be?"

Xander cocks a brow at me. "Vamp sit, you mean?"

My lips quirk into a small, genuine smile. That's exactly what I mean. Because as much as I love Spike, as much as I might trust him, I don't believe for one mili of a second that he's just going to play sit and stay at home while I'm here dealing with Riley.

"You mind?" I ask him, getting all the way out of the car and shutting the door behind me, leaning down into the open window.

"As long as he's not moving in with me again," Xander says quickly, then smiles, nods. "No problem." he puts the car in drive, preparing to drive away. "I'll go make sure our chipless wonder stays put."

I smile at him. "Thanks."

Just one less thing I'll have to worry about.

When I step inside the magic shop, the little bell dinging over my head as I shut the door behind me, I'm relieved to see I've beaten Riley here.

Not so relieved to find that I don't see Giles anywhere, either.

Frowning, I stop moving and go silent. Looking around the shop for…well, I'm not sure. Signs of a struggle? There aren't any. I take a few more steps and stop once more, listening hard. I hear it then. Faintly, the sound of…something coming from the basement steps. Every inch of my body tense, all my senses on high alert, I start to make my way across the shop. Down the steps, around the corner, and over to where the closed door to the basement steps is. As I pass a table of decorative daggers, I grab one up, tighten my grip around it. Raising it above my head, I reach my left hand out and wrap my fingers around the doorknob.

And then it bursts open.

Caught off guard, gasping, I stumble back with the knife still raised above my head.

And my Watcher blinks down at me from his position at the top of the stairs, a big, dusty looking book open and balanced on his palm, gazing at me evenly.

"It's nice to see you too, Buffy," he says dryly, shifting his gaze toward the dagger in my hand as he steps up onto the landing.

I give him a look, lowering the silver blade but not letting go of it. "You scared me," I tell him, following him as he moves back across the shop and toward the cash register. "I didn't know where you were."

Giles raises both eyebrows at me, looking at me from over the rims of his glasses as he sets the book down on the glass counter top. "You might have tried calling for me before resorting to decorative weaponry."

I frown, eyeing the dagger in my hand. "Yeah, well," I lift it up and set it down beside his book, "You try being cooped up for two weeks and see if you aren't just a little bit jumpy."

Giles nods, reaching up to remove his glasses as he looks at me. "Feel good to be out of the house?"

"Feel better under different circumstances," I grumble, little twisting, anxious knots starting to work their way into my stomach now that I'm here, now that the initial surge of adrenaline is wearing off. Thinking that Spike hadn't been wrong about the whole not wanting to be separated thing. I'm starting to feel his absence now as sharply as I feel his presence when we're at home. The first time we've been apart, really apart, since before Christmas.

"Yes, well," Giles says evenly, placing his glasses back on his nose, "beggars can't be—" He pauses mid-sentence, brow furrowing as if noticing something for the first time. He frowns, glancing around the shop. Then behind me, then back over toward the basement steps. Finally, back to me. "Where's Spike?"

I frown, blinking at him. "At home," I say slowly, again wondering why no one seems to be able to grasp this but me. "Where he should be."

Giles rocks back on his heels, widening his eyes a little as he asks, "He isn't coming then?"

"Because that would go over so well," I tell him, starting to feel a little bit like I'm taking crazy pills. I put a bright smile on my face and tilt my head to the side, heavy on the sarcasm as I say, "Hey Riley, you know that vampire you can't stand? The one you chipped last year to keep him from eating people? Well, guess what!" I drop my hands down to my sides with a smack, shaking my head. "No, Giles, he isn't coming."

Giles seems to consider this for a moment before stepping out from behind the counter and around toward me. "Because of Riley?"

Crazy. Pills. I'm definitely on them.

"Yes, because of Riley!" I half-shout at him, throwing my arms up. "Am I the only one who's forgotten that Riley would have gladly staked Spike even when he was still all chips-ahoy?"

Giles's expression remains impassive as he looks at me, folding his arms over his chest. "And you believe Spike incapable of defending himself against Riley, is that it?"

God, I wish that was all it was.

"No," I say, forcing my voice out steady. "No, I just didn't think it was smart for us both to…we still don't know which of us the Initiative's even after."

It's an excuse and I know it. Giles knows it too, because I'm pretty sure at this point that the Initiative had been after me that night in the cemetery. But he and Spike are both equally as sure that they'd been after the bleached blonde.

"Even so," Giles says carefully, the way he does when he's about to make a point, "we also don't know if Riley's indeed working for them or not."

I frown at him, brow furrowed. "Call me crazy for being cautious."

Giles sighs, rolling his eyes up toward the ceiling. "I didn't say you were wrong to be cautious, Buffy." He turns and leans back against the counter, arms still folded as he turns his eyes down to the floor. "I simply don't know if keeping one of our strongest warriors tucked away at home was the best strategic move."

Well, when he puts it like that…

No. I still feel like I've made the right decision.

"What if this is a trap?" I ask him now, throwing out the one excuse that everyone seems to be able to agree on.

"Especially if it's a trap," he replies evenly, almost irritatingly calm. "Aren't you the one who said two of you with super powers are better than one?"

Sure I had. But that was before. Before I'd seen how real the threat was to him. Before I'd felt how very real, how frighteningly strong and harsh and violent the drive to protect him from any threat might be. Before I thought there was a possibility I could ever hurt someone I used to care about.

But the way Giles is looking at me now is enough to make me re-think my decisions. I'd known it was selfish. I'd even known it might have been stupid. But I hadn't really thought it was wrong.

Not until now.

"You really think I should have brought him with me?" I ask my Watcher, my voice dropping low as I search his eyes with mine.

His response has my stomach knots twisting and tightening. "I think it's possible you're risking more by not having him here."

And behind me the bell on the front door chimes, effectively ending our conversation as Giles stands up straight and I whirl around in time to see Riley walking down the steps. He's got that almost sheepish look on his face again, and I wonder dimly if it's for my benefit or for my Watcher's this time.

"Hey," I say quickly, pushing off the counter and stepping toward him, feeling Giles stepping up right beside me. "Thanks for meeting me here."

Riley nods, saying, "Not a problem." He extends his right hand out to my Watcher. "Giles."

"Riley." The older man takes his hand, shakes it once before letting go and stepping back to me. Protective, I can feel his shoulder hovering bare inches from mine. "How are you?"

Riley steps back too, squaring his shoulders toward us as he puts both hands in his jeans pockets. "If I'm being honest, a little confused." His eyes dart to me. "You wanna fill me in on what's been going on here?"

"How much do you know?" Giles asks, and I don't know if Riley hears it or not, but I do. The touch of hesitation, of the slightest suspicion that give his words a double meaning.

My words have a double meaning, too. "I haven't told him anything."

"I see," Giles says, exchanging a brief glance with me before looking back toward my ex. "Can I ask why you're back in Sunnydale?"

Riley frowns, looking back and forth between the two of us like he's starting to suspect something is a little off. Still not sure if he trusts us, or me, I guess. "I already explained this to Buffy, but sure. I got wind that she'd been trying to contact me about a week ago. There wasn't any intel available on why, though." He shrugs, hands still in his pockets. "Figured I'd come back and ask her myself."

"Then you aren't aware of what's been going on here since you left?" Giles presses, expression unreadable. We're both being cautious now. Part of what we'd talked about on the phone when I'd first called him to tell him Riley was in town, that I'd asked him to meet me at the magic shop.

"I've been in South America on assignment for the past couple months," Riley says by way of explanation, giving a little shake of his head. "Pretty much radio silence on all things back home."

And I don't know why, but I believe him. Whether its the completely earnest look on his face, or the way his eyes are cloudy with honest-to-God confusion. It actually might be the fact that I can tell he isn't quite sure what to think of me, either. Not trying to play a game or play it ultra cool or even trying to win me over or convince me of anything.

He's just being Riley.

"Sounds like a no to me," I say pointedly, tossing one last furtive glance toward my Watcher to let him know I've made my decision.

He nods, almost imperceptibly, relaxing his stance just slightly. "Then perhaps we should start from the beginning." Giles glances down to the ground, crosses his arms. "We believe the Initiative is once again operating in Sunnydale."

And if I had any doubt at all that Riley had not even the eensiest clue about what had been going on in his absence, it was banished with the comical widening of his eyes now. "That's impossible," he says to me, shaking his head in earnest. "The Initiative doesn't exist anymore."

Giles nods and glances back up, saying coolly, "We have reason to believe otherwise."

"And what reason is that?" Riley asked him, incredulous.

"Well, the tell-tale absence of anything remotely demony is one," I tell him flatly, gaze level on him when he looks back at me. Not that I know that first hand, because I haven't exactly been patrol girl lately. But according to Willow and Xander, things have been all but dead lately. The maximum amount of slayage in the past two weeks was when Anya staked her first vamp ever— a fledge that happened to be an elderly woman by the name of Edna Alcott. Anya had been extremely proud, but with that being the extent of the action, both Spike and I had recognized the signs.

"And we have…informants." Giles is choosing his words carefully now, still being cautious. "People in the loop, with their ears to the ground reporting back."

Not that it seems to matter a whole lot, because Riley's lashes flutter and he shifts back on his heels. Putting two and two together seamlessly. "Demons," he says flatly, and his eyes are still on me even though I'm not speaking. "You're working with demons?"

"More like…demon," I offer lamely, reaching back behind me to place my hands in my back pockets.

His eyes flash, jaw clenching as he crosses his arms tight over his chest. "Spike."

"Yeah." I nod once, digging my nails into the denim of my jeans and noting the way the churning's picked up in my stomach again. Just hearing the way Riley's said his name, the resentment there, has my defenses rising again. Irrational as it might be, it doesn't seem to matter. Spike had said it has nothing to do with logic, and he'd been right. It doesn't. This isn't logic, it's instinct.

"And what other proof do you have besides the word of one scheming vamp and the fact that your patrols have been a little light?" Riley asks now, eyebrows raised skeptically. I feel my expression darken as I look across at him, not liking the way he's talking about my vampire at all. Torn between wanting to keep my mouth shut, keep my cards to myself and wanting to tell him how massively wrong he is.

Before I can do either, Giles is speaking again, his voice low and serious.

"Buffy was attacked."

That has Riley's arms falling instantly, his eyes widening. "What?" he asks, staring at me. His eyes dart from my face down to my knees and back up again, like he's looking for something. Some evidence of the attack Giles just mentioned. "When?"

I wait for a moment, eyes turned down, for my Watcher to answer his question. He doesn't. I turn my head to the side to find him looking at me. Even, expectant. Waiting for me to tell the story, I guess.

Frowning, I face front again.

"Um, on Christmas night," I tell Riley slowly, pulling my hands out of my back pockets and standing up a little straighter. "In Sunnydale Cemetery. I was out on patrol with Spike and I got hit in the back with some kind of tranquilizer dart—"

"You were patrolling _with_ Spike?" he interrupts me fiercely, his voice loud in the empty magic shop. Saying it like I've just told him something absolutely insane. The craziest thing he's ever heard in his life.

And it makes my blood boil.

I gape at him, eyes going wide. My whole body flushing with heat as I say, " _So_ not the most important part of what I just told you."

Something in my voice maybe, or in the look on my face has him taking a step backward. "Sorry," he backtracks, blinking at me. "I just…you said he was informing for you, I just didn't know he was patrolling for you, too."

I feel my eyes flash, my gut churning again as I fight to hold still, to keep myself from moving toward him.

"Not for," I tell him heatedly, " _with_. And that's not even the point right now, the point is that somebody was out in that cemetery shooting tranqs. At me."

Riley shakes his head. "That still doesn't prove you're dealing with the Initiative."

"And who else would be skulking around a cemetery at night shooting guns designed to incapacitate and not to kill?" Giles asks slowly, his voice calculated and cautious. Like he already knows the answer to his question even as he's asking it. He looks up, tilts his head to the side and finishes. "Your new special ops unit, perhaps?"

Realizing what's being insinuated, eyes flashing as he looks back and forth between us again, his brow furrows angrily. "Look, I already told Buffy, _we're_ not in the business of studying demons."

"Exactly," my Watcher says calmly.

"Fine," Riley grits out, looking like it almost pains him to say it. He folds his arms across his chest again and tilts his chin, looking down at me. "Say you're right and the Initiative _is_ back. What do you think they want?"

I tilt my head to the side, raising my brows as I look back toward Giles, saying, "Since I'm the girl they shot in the back I think I can probably guess."

"But in the interest of full disclosure," Giles says pointedly, giving me a stern look, "we aren't entirely sure it was Buffy they were aiming for."

"Spike, then," Riley murmurs, nodding, looking toward the floor. A beat, then he looks back toward my Watcher. "You're thinking they came back to finish what they started?"

"It's one possibility."

It's just not the _right_ one.

"But they didn't shoot _Spike_ , Giles," I remind the older man hotly, lowering my voice. "They shot me."

"And we still aren't certain that wasn't an accident," he reminds me sharply, his voice just as low.

Riley hears us anyway.

"I think I'm still missing some basic information here," he says, eyes narrowed now. He points toward me. "How exactly would they have 'accidentally' hit you if they were aiming for Spike?"

"We were standing close together," I say quickly, coming up with the first excuse I can think of. And even I can hear how lame it sounds.

"Still," Riley says, brow furrowed. "Those guys were highly trained, some of the best shots I'd ever seen. If there was even a small space between the two of you it wouldn't have been…" He trails off then, lips already starting to form his next word, his eyes finding my face. An uncomfortably long moment passes between the three of us. I have my eyes on the ground, but I can feel it when it happens. When Riley seems to put two and two together and laughs. Short, humorless. "There wasn't even a small space between you, was there?"

 _Oh, boy._

"Riley—" I need him to stop. To stop before he can even get started, before he can say anything to make that churning in my gut bubble over.

"I wish I could say that I'm surprised," he says, cutting me off, his voice turning cold. Bitter. " _Another_ vampire, Buffy? Really? Couldn't even be bothered to go for one with a conscience this time, just went straight for the evil?"

Gritting my teeth, hands curling into fists at my sides, I say, "We can discuss my love life later…"

Riley balks, sputters. " _Love_?"

I ignore him, nails biting into my palms. "…but right now there are bigger issues to deal with. Like the fact that the government agency you told me was virtually extinct is back and looking to add _Vampire Slayer_ to their list of HSTs."

"Did it occur to you that they aren't after you because you're the Slayer?" Riley asks me, his voice getting louder with every word. "Maybe they just thought you were another vamp if you were out in the cemetery all tangled up with one."

"We weren't…tangled up," I tell him, biting the words out. My skin is so hot. "We were just kissing."

Riley laughs again, that same loud, humorless kind of chuckle. "Oh, okay. You were _just kissing_ a soulless demon." His eyes flash, mouth forming a hard line. "So basically you're saying there's every chance they were aiming for him and your lips just got in the way."

My stomach rolls, churning again. The words flying past my lips in an effort to get them out before I snap. "There was plenty of space for them to have hit Spike easily if he's who they'd been aiming for."

I don't know if Giles can feel what's happening, if he can feel how incredibly tense I am, that I'm just barely, _barely_ keeping my temper in check.

"You know, they might not have been trying to hurt you." He leans toward me and narrows his eyes, lowering his voice. "Maybe they were just trying to make it stop."

My own eyes blaze, and I see red.

"You know what Riley?" I plant my hands on my hips to keep them steady, to keep them to myself. "I don't have time for this crap. More than likely my life is in danger here, more than likely from the people _you_ used to work for, and we just thought you might be able to help. Yes, okay, I'm with Spike now. We're together. If you can't deal, that's fine." I finally pause, suck in a deep breath, try and get the heat in my cheeks to cool. I take a moment, look away, then slowly meet his gaze again. "We'll find a way to handle this without you."

"That's not what I…I just don't…" His eyes shoot meaningfully toward Giles, then back to me. He raises his eyebrows.

I sigh, clenching and unclenching my fists once more. Then I turn toward my Watcher. "Give us a minute?"

Without a word, just one small nod, Giles turns and steps to back toward the counter, near the end furthest from us, where the cash register is. I turn back around toward Riley.

"Buffy," he says my name like he's never said it, looks at me like he's never seen me before. "What is going on? I mean, Spike?" He shakes his head, disbelieving. "This is _Spike_ we're talking about?"

I really, _really_ wish he'd stop saying his name like that. "I know exactly who we're talking about."

"Then you'll know why I'm just a little thrown here." He steps a little closer to me, angling his body to give our conversation at least the illusion of privacy. "The last time I saw the two of you together, Buffy, he was trying to rip your throat out."

Sighing, I reach a slightly shaky hand up, smoothing back the hair that's come loose from my ponytail and say, "Things change."

"No, _you've_ changed. You…" he trails off, his eyes lighting on the faded puncture wounds on my neck. Not the claim mark, but the one from a couple weeks ago. The bite that had saved Spike's memories. His eyes widen and he reaches forward, gripping the collar of my jacket and pulling it back. "What did he do to you?"

I reach up on instinct and slap his hand away, hard. The smacking sound echoes through the shop, snapping Giles's attention back toward us. "He didn't do _anything_ to me, Riley," I say, muscles coiled, on red alert again. I step away from him, turning my back and moving away. Because I need the space. Because I'm starting to get nervous again.

"You let him bite you?" he asks me loudly, not bothering to keep his voice down now. He reaches for me again, hand gripping my upper arm through my jacket.

I turn back toward him, fighting to keep my temper under control. My blood buzzing, everything hot. Tight. Burning as I stare up at him, wanting to shove him away but not trusting myself to yet. Not knowing if I'd be able to keep from using my full strength or not.

"What, is this another thrall thing?" He's asking me now, his hand tightening around my arm as he does. "Dracula all over again?"

"Let go of me," I tell him, my voice low. He has to let go. He has to.

Instead, he shakes me once. "Answer me."

I'm just about to do it, too. To lose any control I have and hit him. Push him away from me. Hurt him.

I don't get the chance to.

It happens fast enough that I don't even notice it's happening at all until it's over. Strong arms banding around my waist, pulling me back. Yanking me out of Riley's grip and spinning me around, pressing me firmly against the leather clad chest that smells like whiskey and tobacco and grass and _Spike_ , and instantly the knots in my stomach fall away, the churning lessens, the burning, bubbling rage that had been blinding me just moments before fluttering out the window as his arms wind around my waist, wrapping all the way around me.

"Touch the lady again and lose a hand, mate," my vampire growls, his voice hard and low, breath fluttering the little stray pieces of hair beside my ear.

Giles is there in an instant. I see him, see him move across the room and place himself in between us and my reeling ex-boyfriend. And he's saying something, something to Riley, but I'm not listening. I'm shaking in Spike's arms, too relieved that he's here, that the anxious knots and the churning and the rage are gone now, to be angry at him. To be as furious as I dimly know I should be that he's here, that he came here deliberately, even after I'd explained to him why he couldn't. Shouldn't.

I feel his arms tighten around me, his cool lips press against my temple and he whispers, "You alright, luv?"

I nod. "Yeah." Sucking in a deep breath, letting the air out slowly through my lips. Nodding again. The shaking starts to slow as Spike presses another kiss against my head. "Yeah, I'm fine." It's true. Physically, it's true, I'm fine. I'm just not so sure about everything else yet.

Placing my hands on Spike's chest, I press against him, gently separating myself from him so I can step back and look up into his face. Feeling better, a lot better, realizing a whole lot of that probably has to do with him. His hands find their way up beneath my jacket and under my shirt, rubbing little circles into my bare back. Like he's infusing my skin with whatever calm he's somehow managing to feel now. I frown at him, starting to remember I should be angry about something. "You shouldn't have come here."

His lashes flutter, eyes widening slightly. "Yeah? Seems to me 's lucky for soldier boy there I came when I did. Besides," he pulls one hand away from my back and places it against my cheek, brushing the bone with his thumb, eyes searching mine. "Didn't really think I'd let you come all on your lonesome did you?" Then he looks up, eyes flashing as he says, "Trust this wanker bout as much as it looks like he trusts me."

"Probably more," Riley says angrily, his voice still hard. I turn around in Spike's arms and my vampire steps to the side, separating himself from me, but just slightly.

"Ah, white bread," Spike smirks at him, lips curving wickedly as he takes a small step forward. "Can't say as I've missed seein' your face around here."

Giles makes a low, disapproving noise, like a warning.

Riley just glares at the blonde vampire. And I notice his own hands shifting into fists at his sides. Instantly, my hackles raise again, the urge to step forward and place myself between the two of them nearly unbearable. "What the hell'd you do to her, Spike?" he asks.

Spike's response is a head tilt, a flutter of his dark lashes as he stares down the other man and purrs, "Plenty of things you couldn't, I'd wager." He punctuates the intimation with a tongue curling smirk, and Riley's fist slams into his jaw before either of us can think to move.

It isn't that hard of a punch, I don't think. I barely feel it, but it's just enough to knock Spike backward a few steps. "Oooh," he coos, whirling back around, pressing his hand lightly to the spot on his jaw he's just been struck. "Tough guy, are you?" A good fight. He hasn't had one in weeks, I know, and I can see it as surely as I can feel it. How much he's just enjoyed that. How badly he wants to throw a punch back. My own fingers are tingling with it. In fact, it's the adrenaline, the thrill my vampire's experiencing right now that's the only thing keeping me from lunging forward and breaking Riley's nose.

"That's adorable," Spike's saying, dropping his hand away from his jaw and inkling his head toward me. "I'm guessin' she hasn't told you, then."

Riley's been shaking his knuckles out up til this point, but Spike's words have him pausing. I look toward Giles, my eyes going wide just as Riley narrows his eyes on the vampire and asks, "Told me what?"

 _No._

No, no, no. It's all I can think as I reach for my vampire's hand and pull him back, angling my body toward him so I can see his eyes. He can't tell him about the chip. He can't. "Spike, don't," I say, voice low. My eyes pleading his. "Please."

"Yeah, Spike," Riley says, the words somehow sounding somewhere between a taunt and a declaration. "Wouldn't want to give yourself a migraine."

Spike's smirk falls, and the barest hint of rage flutters through the connection between us. His eyes shift toward Riley but his body stays facing me. "Don't think I'd be pokin' the bear just now if I was you, _boy_."

"Why not? Last I heard the bear was pretty toothless."

"That was then." Spike tilts his head to the side and grins at him wolfishly. "This is now."

Seeming to put two and two together so fast it makes my head spin, Riley's moving, digging a wooden stake out of the back waistband of his jeans and raising it up in his right hand.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't shove this through your chest right now."

And I'm moving just as fast. Lunging forward, I grab Riley's wrist, not hesitating once, not even for a second, before I wrench it violently to the side. He cries out in something I think is both pain and surprise, and the stake clatters to the floor at his feet. Giles moves to pick it up, tucking it into his jacket pocket as he moves back to stand on the opposite side of Spike.

"That's enough," I say sharply, letting go of Riley's wrist, turning to look back at my vampire over my shoulder. "From both of you."

Because it has to be.

Even with Spike here, even with the steady flow of calm he's sending me through the bridge that connects us, it isn't enough. Wouldn't be enough if Riley attacked him. I know it now. Know I wouldn't be able to tamp it down or control it. The wild rage, the churning in my stomach, the thing that makes my skin stretch and my blood boil and that's every bit as alive as I am. As much a part of me as anything else. _It's not brains, it's blood._ That's what Spike had told me in my bedroom. And I'd known even then that he was right. God, that's why he shouldn't have come here. Why we have to learn more about the connection, more about how to control it. The way Spike somehow managed to control it tonight, to calm me down, to get the aching to stop. We need to learn how to do more of that. Because the demon, my demon, would have demanded his blood if Riley had attacked Spike.

I'd kill him. Just like that, in the time it would take for someone to snap their fingers. I'd kill him if he tried to stake Spike. In this moment I think I know I'd kill anyone.

And I can't. I can't let that happen.

I won't.

Whether it's the severity on my voice, or the look on my face, or the blazing I feel in my eyes, I'm not sure. But neither of them make a move to argue with me. Spike nods and steps back a ways, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his duster and eyeing Riley warily from over my shoulder.

Likewise, Riley cradles his wrist in his left hand, rubbing it gently and taking his own step back. I glance down at his wrist, it's already starting to swell, then mumble a stifled little apology about spraining it. Because I know it isn't broken.

"Can you help us or not?" I finally ask, breaking the awkward silence, totally prepared for whatever answer he's going to give me. Because I'd meant what I'd told him earlier. If he can't deal with Spike, that's fine. I will find a way to do this without his help.

And possibly save his life in the process.

I actually think I'm more than halfway prepared to hear him say no. What with the wrist spraining and the yelling and the de-chipping of Spike. So I have a hard time covering my surprise when he looks at me and nods.

"I…yeah, maybe." He thinks about it. Then, "Probably. But—"

" _Will_ you?" I ask, rephrasing the question to the more important version.

We stare each other down for a long moment. His eyes drift from mine, over to Giles, behind my shoulder to Spike, to the fading bite mark on my neck, then finally up to mine again.

And he sighs. Nods once. "I'll ask around," he says slowly, almost grudgingly. "See if there's anything I can find out, if they're here and where they might be stationed if they are. But that's it." He exchanges another hard look with Spike. "If there's a fight I won't be in it, and I doubt I'll be able to figure out why they're here for sure."

And that's fine. Good, even, because I don't know if I'd trust Riley in a fight. Trust him not to "accidentally" try something, not to let something happen and easily shift the blame onto someone else.

No, this arrangement is better. For all of us.

And besides that…"I don't care why they're here," I tell him truthfully, stepping back away from him. "I just want to know where I can find them."


	44. Chapter 43

Riley makes a vague sounding promise to check in once he has something to report, focusing his attention exclusively on Giles as he does. He won't look at me now. Carefully avoids looking in my direction, and consequently, in Spike's. I watch in silence as the two of them agree on a system for delivering whatever information Riley can find, my hands still shaking just the tiniest bit. In an effort to keep them still, I curl them into fists, dig my nails into my palms. Behind me, Spike is constantly pushing a warm reassurance that isn't in the least bit subtle, but I don't care. As long as the churning in my stomach stays away, I don't care.

After what feels like forever to me, Giles and Riley nod toward each other in agreement and I watch, eyes never leaving Riley's hands, the way he's still cradling the wrist I've tweaked, as he turns and finally exits the Magic Box.

The door clicks closed behind him, and instantly the heavy air surrounding the three of us seems to lift. I let my shoulders sag, relaxing forward, tight fists uncurling at my sides. Behind me, Spike takes a step forward to fill the gap between me and my Watcher. Giles pulls Riley's stake out of his pocket and examines it carefully in his hand.

For a moment, none of us says anything at all.

Then Giles breaks the silence.

"Well," he says, shifting his eyes away from the wooden weapon and up to me, "all things considered, I think that went very well."

 _All things considered_ …I don't think he even knows all the things to be considered here. Like the fact that even now I feel like I could strangle by pseudo-soldier ex with my bare hands.

Instead of bringing that up, though, I make a face at him instead. Folding my arms over my chest and gripping onto my arms to still my hands. They're _still_ shaking just a little. "Oh, yeah," I say sarcastically, but my voice is quiet. "That was laughs a plenty."

Giles returns my look with a look of his own and turns to step to the side, setting the wooden stake down on the glass counter top beside the decorative dagger I'd picked up earlier.

"No one ended up dead, so I'd say that's something." He turns back toward us, casting a meaningful glance at Spike before returning his attention to me. "And at least we know a little more now than we did an hour ago." He pauses, thinking about that. Then, "I can say with some certainty that I don't believe Riley knows anything about the Initiative's operation here, or that he's involved with them. Unfortunately," Giles sighs, crosses his arms, "there do still seem to be a few loose ends."

"What are you thinkin'?" Spike asks him, his hands still stuffed in the pockets of his duster as he angles himself just slightly away from me. For the first time since he'd crashed our little party here, Spike's attention isn't focused entirely on me, the constant little waves of peace that had been pouring off him slowing to a more quiet ebb. And it's just enough that some of the irritation I know I should have felt for him before, for coming here at all, comes roaring back to life. And it's now, as soon as the question leaves the vampire's lips, that I realize just how insanely angry I actually am. That I am angry. That I can't freaking believe he'd come here even after I'd specifically asked him not to.

Suddenly fuming, a different kind of heat than the churning had been earlier, I whirl toward my vampire, eyes flashing. "I have a better question," I say heatedly, lowering my voice to a hiss. "What the _hell_ were you thinking?"

His eyebrows shoot up as he focuses on me, leaning away, blinking. "I was _thinking_ I'd make sure everythin' here was on the straight and narrow before—"

I don't let him finish.

"What'd you do?" I demand, unfolding my arms and reaching toward him, placing my palm flat on his chest and shoving him backward. "Wait for me to leave and then sneak out of the house?"

I watch as Spike's expression shifts, darkening as he stumbles a little. Then he narrows his eyes at me and reaches up, gripping me by the wrist so I can't pull my hand away. "So what if I did?"

Held in thrall for a moment by the stormy azure of his eyes, I shake my head, wrench my hand out of his grip violently. Heat flares between us, my chest heaves as I suck in a ragged breath

"Then I'm gonna kill Xander," I say, still livid. Furious. Maybe irrationally, but I don't care. Rational thought and I haven't exactly been best buddies over the last several hours. Because standing here looking at Spike, just thinking about it now. That stake in Riley's waistband, how immediately he'd reached for it, how ready he'd been to use it. How close he'd come.

How close _I'd_ come to…

My entire body freezes, a chilled shiver rocketing down my spine as I remember the feeling again. The rage, seeing red. Wild, irrational, unquenchable. The burning in the back of my throat, how badly I'd wanted to close my hand around my ex's throat and slam him into the wall on the far side the room.

Shivering, I clench my hands into fists again and force the memories out, down, trying instead to focus on the question Spike is asking me now.

"Xander?" He asks, momentarily distracted. He frowns. "What's Harris got to do with this?"

I meet his eyes, a little of my own ire fading as I do. Whether it's because he isn't angry anymore either, or if it's because I'm trying so hard now to keep my own temper under control, I don't know. Don't think it matters.

"I told him to watch you," I explain lamely, anger pushed aside as I do, feeling appropriately ridiculous as I say the words out loud. Realizing now, a little too late, but still, how useless sending Xander to vamp-sit an unchipped Spike had actually been.

My vampire narrows his eyes on me again, and I feel it. A rush of disappointment as he inhales slowly and says, "And we'll be talkin' about _that_ later. As it was, I was out of the house as soon as you were." He turns and glances over his shoulder, toward the basement steps. "Came through the tunnels, holed up down there. Just thought I'd keep an eye out, ya know?" He looks back to me, eyes softening in time with the rest of his body langauge. "Wasn't even gonna come up here, luv. Not unless you needed me to."

"I didn't need you to," I insist automatically, my voice hardening all over again at the implication in his words.

Completely unfazed, Spike fixes me with a knowing look. Arches a brow.

Irritated, shifting back away from him, I ask, " _What_?"

My vampire steps closer to me, sending a sidelong glance at Giles before shifting positions to shield our conversation from his prying eyes. Lowering his voice, his eyes boring down into mine. Eyes I can't hide from. Swallowing, I just stare up at him and wait for him to say whatever it is he's going to say.

"Can't lie to me, sweet. I felt it," he tells me gently, any trace of anger I'd been feeling from him a moment ago suddenly gone. Vanished. His eyes search mine, his hand suddenly there, cool and firm against my cheek. "Don't know if even you know how close you came to–"

"Alright, fine," I say quickly, pulling my head out of his hand and stepping back. I don't need him to say it. Don't need him to tell me what it is he'd felt from me, what it is I'd been so close to doing. I don't want it acknowledged, not now. Maybe not ever. And definitely not in front of Giles. I wonder if it's something that'll go away if I ignore it hard enough. "Maybe it _was_ a good thing you showed up when you did. But that…" I trail off, shaking my head. Remembering that this argument isn't about _me_ at all. Eyes narrowed, I say, "That doesn't change the fact that I asked you not to come here."

"Couldn't not come," Spike says simply, like it's just that. Simple. A fact. He lets his hand fall back to his side with a smack and continues, "You _know_ that. Knew it when you asked me to stay behind." Still shielding our faces from Giles, he leans forward purposefully. "Knew you comin' here alone was reckless."

My eyes flash again, narrowing as I clench my jaw. "No, _you_ coming here was reckless."

I blanch just slightly once the words are out, realizing too late how childish they sound _. I know you are but what am I._ God, what are we, five?

But Spike refuses to give in to the ire I know he's feeling from me again. Remaining calm, his perfect face completely impassive, he cocks his head to the side and murmurs, "You _do_ remember who you're talkin' to, yeah?"

I think it's supposed to be a joke. And I don't know exactly what it is he's done. To me, to the connection. But I think he's done _something_ , because all at once I feel like I can't fight with him anymore. Or maybe I just don't want to fight with him anymore. Don't want to argue. Just want to be glad that he's standing here all solid and non-dusty, and that I didn't have to hurt anyone to make sure he stayed that way. The heat that had been blazing across my cheeks, in my chest just moments ago grows fuzzy around the edges, cools, and flickers out. And I just want to go to him, wrap my arms around his waist and lay my cheek against the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

I feel suddenly like I could sleep for days.

"Yeah," I say softly, and when Spike reaches out to entwine his fingers with mine, I let him. "I remember."

Offering me a small, gentle smile, he says, "Good. Now that's settled, already know what watcher Boy thinks. But what about you?" His eyes drop down to our joined hands, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. "You believe Riley?"

Even now, just the mention of his name is enough to make my insides grow hot, the churning little knots starting to twist again in my stomach. And like he knows this, senses it, Spike's hand tightens just a little over mine.

Whatever trick he's picked up, I need to learn it. The knots start to fade almost instantly.

"Umm," I begin, thinking it over, dropping my own eyes down to our joined hands. "I believe he isn't working with the Initiative." Which is the truth. I do believe that, however grudgingly, he doesn't have a clue as to what it is the government agency is doing back here. "What I'm not so sure about is whether or not him being in town now is going to help us or hurt us." Sighing, I look up again, turn my eyes toward Giles. I'd halfway forgotten he was still here.

He's standing exactly where he had been a moment ago, but he isn't looking at us. Instead, his eyes are turned down respectfully, making a show of staring at something apparently way interesting on the floor. He only glances our way when I call his name.

"It's totally possible he could turn on us, isn't it?" I ask him, more just to bring him back into the conversation, to let him know whatever private moment Spike and I had needed is over, than because I actually need someone else to tell me the answer. I already know, anyway.

Like he realizes this, Giles nods once. "It's possible."

But that's not even the real question. Maybe the better question isn't can Riley turn on us, but will he? The same dichotomy as earlier. Not can you help us, but will you.

The distinction is a subtle one, but so majorly important.

Sighing, I squeeze Spike's hand once more before letting go to ask, "Do you think he will?"

"I'm afraid that remains to be seen," Giles says, sighing himself. Then, as if realizing something important for the first time, "Which reminds me, until we hear back from Riley, it still isn't safe for the two of you to be out."

Instantly on alert, Spike agrees. "We should get back to the house sooner rather than later," he says, directing the words at me, scanning my face for an acknowledgment.

"Uh, yeah," I supply weakly, still feeling that weird sense of tired. I wonder briefly if it's like some kind of supernatural, demony jet-lag. Wonder if I'll feel this way any time my demon decides to get a little out of hand. Quickly locking that thought away for another time, I nod. "Okay."

Giles promises us that he'll be in touch tomorrow morning, that he'll either call or come by, and I let Spike take my hand and pull me wordlessly toward the basement steps.

My head is everywhere but here. Thoughts twisting and jumbled as I follow Spike through the darkened sewer tunnels, always just a few feet behind him. We aren't moving exceptionally fast, but we aren't out for a stroll either. Every couple minutes I'm struck with a new wave of awareness, of gut wrenching _knowing_. Realizing what could have happened, what almost _did_ happen, back there. And every time a new though, a fresh memory, a ghost of the burning sensation comes back to me, I shove it violently back down. Ignore, ignore, ignore. That's the name of my game. Denial girl.

If I wasn't already sort of a super hero, maybe that's who I could be?

We have to be close to halfway home by the time Spike suddenly skids to an abrupt halt, whirls around to face me. It happens so fast, and I'm so distracted, I don't notice he's stopped until I narrowly miss colliding with him. Blinking, stunned by the abrupt shift, I step back so I can look up into his face. His eyes are dark in the tunnel, little to no light available for me to see by. I can't read the expression on his face.

"Alright, out with it," he demands impatiently, sounding like he's been waiting on something for a long while. And now I can read his expression, even though I don't need to anymore. I'd know it even if I couldn't see a thing. He's in one of _these_ moods.

Things don't ever end well when he's in one of these moods. Especially not when I'm trying so hard to not think or talk about whatever it is he's wanting me to think or talk about.

I sigh, letting my eyes fall shut for a moment. "Out with what?"

"Whatever it is that's runnin' through that head of yours," he says, voice still aggravated, verging on annoyed. "I can feel that there's _somethin'_ , clear as bloody day, so just say it already."

I let my eyes flutter open again, frowning. Shake my head.

"I don't want to fight with you," I tell him now. Because I don't. I don't want to fight with him and I don't want to hash out the conversation about the chip at the Magic Box and I really, _really_ don't want to talk about what had almost happened with Riley.

I just want to go home.

"Who said anythin' about a fight?" Spike asks me, clearly undaunted by the dismissal in my voice. He plants his hands on his hips and squares his shoulders. Knowing as well as I do that this is exactly his way of picking a fight. When everything in me, my words, my body language, the steady pulse flowing across the connection is screaming at him to drop it and he doesn't.

"It'll be a fight," I promise him, letting just the tiniest trace of a cautionary edge into the words. I start to walk again, brushing past him. "Believe me."

I only get about a foot away before Spike reaches out and grabs me, wrapping his hand around my arm and yanking me back toward him. Steely eyes burning into mine, he asks, "This about what happened back there?"

Stomach knots tightening, I inhale deeply through my nose. My eyes drop from his down to his hand on my arm, the black lacquered nails digging into my jacket sleeve. Taking a moment, clenching my jaw, I exhale and meet his eyes again. "Don't," I warn him, voice very low as I pull my arm away from his grip. "Not now."

I'm not even sure what it is exactly I'm warning him of, just needing to say it.

Frowning deeply, a flicker of irritation dancing in his eyes, flowing between us, he says, "So you're still miffed then?"

Maybe it's the casual tone of his voice. The way he sounds just a tiny bit annoyed, like somehow me being mad at him for deliberately doing what I'd asked him not to do, _more than once,_ is so completely irrational. Maybe it's the way he's looking down at me, like I'm avoiding talking through some innocuous domestic argument, like the kind we used to have over the TV. No, I don't know what it is exactly, but something in me snaps. And all the desire I'd had not to fight with him snaps with it.

Renewed anger flares to life, white-hot as it roars its way up from my stomach, into my chest, up my neck. " _Miffed_?" I sputter, incredulous. "I'm not _miffed_ , Spike, I'm furious."

And he's angry now, too. Lets himself be angry. Eyes flashing, his voice coming out a low growl, he asks, "Furious at me for _worryin'_ about you?"

"Furious at you for not _listening_ to me," I hiss, my face hot, skin on fire. Because he's stillnot getting it. Still somehow missing the point. "I asked you not to come. I had _reasons_ for asking you not to come."

 _Good_ reasons.

Spike leans away from me, the muscle in his jaw tensing as he tries to keep a hold on his temper. I can feel it, flaring wildly as he gazes back at me. "Well, maybe if you'd'a let me in on these _reasons_ of yours—"

"You would've come anyway," I shout at him, not caring how loud my voice sounds in the tunnels as I cut him off abruptly.

"You're damn right I would've bloody come anyway," he shouts back at me, his voice matching mine, echoing up around the tunnels that surround us. His next words come out through gritted teeth. "You're my _mate_ , Buffy. I'm hardwired to come to you when you call for me." Then, quieting just a little as he stares at me, "Even if you don't realize you're doin' the calling."

"Someone could have gotten hurt," I say, shaking my head, refusing to acknowledge what he's telling me. "Someone could have gotten _killed_. Riley—"

It's a mistake. I know it, as soon as his name leaves my lips, I know it.

Spike scoffs, a short, sharp burst of air through his nose as he narrows his eyes and steps back.

"Oh, I see," he says, his voice suddenly a menacing quiet. He furrows his brow, his expression shifting until its somewhere between hurt confusion and outright disdain. "That the reason, then? Didn't think I'd be able to control myself without that bug zapper in my brain?"

I blanch, all the blood pumping in my veins suddenly running cold. It's been so long since I've heard him this scornful. Even longer since I've _felt_ it. Hurt and contempt and betrayal, playing over his face, boiling over the top and flooding the invisible bridge between us until all I can do is stumble back, blinking.

I shake my head. " _No_."

But Spike's not listening. "This about what you asked me before?" he presses, advancing on me, not letting me speak. Not letting me _explain_. "If me wantin' to take out those Initiative wankers was just about my need for _revenge_?"

"Spike, _no_ ," I insist again, my voice rising in pitch, in level, to match his. Trying to speak over him. "That's not—"

"Jesus Buffy, tell me the _truth_ ," he roars, stepping directly into my personal space and grabbing me by the elbows. I let him. Let him drag me against him let him yell, too stunned in the moment to do anything but. "That's it, right? What I said back at the house, it scared you. I can feel it even now, pet. So _tell_ me." His grip on my arms tightens and he shakes me once. Not hard, just enough to let me know this won't be over until I give him what he wants. "Tell me you didn't want me comin' along cause you were afraid I'd kill your little tin soldier."

He believes the words when he says them. Truly believes that that is what I was thinking at the Magic Box, what I was thinking when I demanded he stay at home. What I've been thinking all night. That I was worried _he_ would hurt Riley. That I was worried he wouldn't be able to control himself. He believes it, believes that what he'd confessed to me in my bedroom had frightened me, or had made me see him differently. He believes it, and it's killing him.

And just like that, the walls come down, the denial I've been working so hard to cultivate since the very first rush of that awful feeling on my porch earlier slipping out of my fingers and I know I can't hide it from him.

Something inside of me breaks.

I reach up and put my hands on his chest, push him away from me.

"I didn't want you coming along because I was afraid _I'd_ kill Riley if he tried to hurt you," I tell him in a rush. A jumble. My chest heaving, eyes burning, vision blurring as I stare at him and shake my head. "I'm not scared of _you_ , Spike." And my voice cracks pitifully as the next words leave my lips. "I'm scared of _me_."

Blinking, stunned, Spike steps even further away from me. His lips form an "o", like he's going to say something. He doesn't. Just looks at me, searching my face for what feels like a really long time. Then finally, his azure eyes widen as realization dawns across his features, and he does speak. His voice barely above a whisper.

"Oh, Buffy."

And then I'm crying. _Really_ crying. I don't even know how it happens, when it started, but I can't stop it now. I'm standing in the middle of a darkened sewer tunnel with great, heaving sobs wracking my shoulders and rivers of hot, stinging tears rolling down my cheeks. They slip off my chin, down my neck, pooling at the base of my throat where I leave them, not bothering to try and wipe any of them away. And my hands are shaking as I reach up and cover my face with them, pressing the pads of my fingers into my eyes and trying to muffle the echoing sound of my tears.

Spike hesitates for a fraction of a fraction of an instant before he's suddenly there. Crossing the short distance, splashing up puddles and gathering me into his arms. He shushes me, murmuring nonsense into my hair as he cradles the back of my head in one strong hand, encourages me to press my tear-soaked face into his chest. I do, going limp, my entire body quivering now. I allow him to hold me. To carry my weight. For just a moment, I shelve the burden of what I've been feeling all night long and let him take a small piece of it as I weep into his chest.

But it's just that, a moment. Just one before it's gone and I inexplicably find myself pushing him away again, stepping backward, wiping furiously at my eyes with the backs of my hands.

He reaches for me again and breathes my name, but I shake my head.

"Don't," I say again, not a warning this time, but a command. "Just…don't. You can't…" I sniffle, vision still blurred even though the flow of tears has stopped. "You don't…you couldn't _possibly_ know how this feels." There's just enough presence of mind left in me to realize my words have hurt him, but I can't stop talking now. If I stop talking I'll start crying again and the tears are more confusing than the churning, burning rage that brought the tears on in the first place. "I'm supposed to _protect_ people. I'm supposed t-to save lives. Not…feel like…" I can't find the words. Not sure I could say them even if I could. "I'm not supposed to _want_ —"

Sensing my distress, Spike steps closer to me again and reassures me with a quiet murmur, "You didn't _do_ anythin', sweetheart." I can feel him trying to work the connection, trying to placate me the way he had back at the Magic Box, but it isn't working. He isn't touching me, I won't let him touch me, so it isn't working. "Nothin' happened."

Stoic, sniffling one last time, I fold my arms over my waist. Drop my eyes down to the wet tunnel floor. "You said it yourself. You could feel it, how close I was to…" I trail off, swallowing hard. There's a lump in my throat that hadn't been there before. And I might as well just come out and say it. We both already know, both have already felt it. I blink, wet lashes sticking together as I turn to meet his gaze again. "I would have killed him," I say softly, matter-of-fact. "If he'd tried, I would've…without a second thought."

"Buffy, luv." Spike moves to me, takes my face between his hands and stares down at me with wild eyes. When he speaks, he speaks slowly, drawing the words out with such fierce purpose. Like he's desperate for me to believe him. "Nothing. Happened."

And I know. Logically, I know he's right. Nothing happened. Giles had even pointed that out. No one died, or dusted, so the meeting had been considered a win. But it had been close. So close. And that had even been before Spike had showed up, _before_ it was his life that had been threatened. That rage had come from me. Sure, it had been partly protective. Partly a reaction to the way Riley had spoken about Spike, the words he'd said.

But when he'd grabbed _me_. That's when it had gotten worse.

That's when I'd realized…"I wanted to. When he was…" I shake my head in Spike's hands, eyes glued to his as I whisper, "I _wanted_ to."

I don't bother to clarify. I don't need to. Spike's hands, still on my face, tighten slightly. His thumb brushes over my cheek bone. "But you _didn't_ ," he reminds me, assures me again, and this time I can feel it. That he's trying to calm me down. I blink up at him and he repeats the three words again, another subtle brush of his thumb across my skin. This time up, under my eye, to catch the last tear that's just fallen.

Reaching up, wrapping my hands around his wrists I gently pull his hands away from me. "And that's supposed to make it better?"

Frowning, Spike nods. Looking at me like it should be obvious. "The impulses you don't act on matter just as much as the ones you do, luv."

The words carry a heavy weight with them, and Spike speaks them with the authority of someone who truly understands what they mean. They sound like something I might have said, had our situation been reversed. Something I realize now, gazing back at him, that I should have said to him standing in my bedroom not two hours ago.

Instead of saying it now though, I just stand there, frozen, beating myself up. Not wanting his tender assurances. Not wanting to feel better, to be pardoned. "So I'm supposed to feel good about the fact that I didn't _murder_ my ex-boyfriend in cold blood, I just _wanted_ to?"

Spike's answer is immediate. "Yes."

A new, strange sound tears from my throat at that. Half choked sob and half hysterical giggle. I shake my head, arms squeezing my middle just a little tighter. Spike's still trying to flood the link between us but I'm fighting him every step of the way, and he knows it. Can feel me pushing back on him as surely as I can feel him pressing forward.

He presses forward now.

"Know it doesn't sit right with you, pet," he tells me softly, sweetly. Like someone trying to coax a wounded animal out of hiding. "Know it's not what you wanna hear. But you have to trust me on this." His eyes darken just a little, a shadow clouding his face. "I know a bit about temperin' bloodlust."

"That's what that was?" I hear myself asking even though I already know the answer. "That…that feeling?"

Spike inhales deeply through his nose, searches my eyes for a long moment. And then he nods. "Roiling in your belly. Flames at the back of your throat. White-hot inferno racin' in your veins." He steps a little closer to me, gesturing demonstratively with his hands as he continues. "Tinglin' in your fingers, like they'll up and fall off if you don't wrap 'em tight around somethin' and squeeze."

Again, words spoken by someone who knows exactly what they're talking about.

And he's right, so _exactly_ right, that I feel my head actually start to spin. That's what it had been, that other feeling, the one that hadn't been about protecting my vampire. Bloodlust. Riley had made me angry, so angry I couldn't see straight, and that…my reaction had been…

I squeeze my eyes closed against the spinning, and my stomach rolls. "Oh, God."

"That the first time you've felt it?" he asks me softly, and I feel him take another step closer to me. Edging me in, trying not to scare me off.

What he doesn't realize is that he can't scare me. Not any more than I've already scared myself.

"I…yeah," I answer him lamely, eyes still shut. "I think so. First time I've ever felt anything like…that."

Spike sighs, and I feel like he's nodding. "Won't be the last, I'd wager."

Panic. Bright, palpable, taking my already twisty stomach and flipping it upside down. Eyes snapping open, I reach for him. Blindly, desperately, clinging to his arms I say, "It has to be. Spike, I can't do that again. I can't _feel_ that way again, I can't. What if I…I _can't_." My nails scrape at the leather covering his forearms and I beg him on a whisper, only half knowing what it is I'm begging for, " _Please_."

His eyes are anguished as they gaze back into mine. "Please what, sweet?"

I know the words are wrong, that they don't make sense, even as I say them. "Take it back," I whisper pathetically, and I think I know as soon as I've said it that there isn't anything for him to take back. He didn't give this to me. He didn't choose this. _I_ chose this. I chose this for both of us the minute I pressed my lips to Dracula's arm and drank. I chose for him. And never once has he resented me for it. Never once has he asked me for something I wasn't willing to give. Never demanded that I change, even though he's had to change everything.

 _Everything._

And he's standing in front of me now, loving me so much, hurting for me so _much_ , that it physically makes my chest ache.

For a moment, I can't breathe.

"Take it…" Spike trails off, squinting at me. Then he shakes his head. "No, luv, I didn't bring this into the connection." He reaches up, hesitates for a second, then brushes his hand over the crown of my head. "It's part of who you _are_ , Buffy. Has been ever since you were called, you've just never had this side of things before. All that rage is usually reserved for us demons." He cocks his head to the side and lets his eyes travel my face. "What you felt tonight…just another side of the same coin, same thing that's already inside you."

I know he's right. I know it's true.

I just don't want it to be.

"I don't want to hurt anyone," I tell him earnestly, voice small, feeling the gentle weight of his hand as it moves to my pony tail, wraps around it and glides down. I sniffle, reaching up to rub my nose with the back of my hand. "I don't want to kill _anyone_."

It's a declaration as much as it is a reminder.

Spike's response is the same. "Then you won't."

Like it's that simple? He of all people should know it isn't that simple. He felt what I did tonight, has felt it a million times before, probably. And he'd said it himself. Might have been the first time I've felt it so keenly, but it won't be the last. And if I got that close, so close, just dealing with someone I used to care about…who's to say what might happen when it's somebody else?

"How do you _know_ that?" I ask him miserably, because he's sounded so insanely sure of himself. Like he knows me better than I know me.

And then again, maybe he does.

"Because," he begins, shrugging, "You're the Slayer. It's not just what you do, it's who you _are_. It's…" He sighs, trailing off. One hand finds its way back to my cheek. "You fight evil, you protect the innocent. You save lives. You save the _world_. You carry the weight of the whole _bloody_ universe on your sweet little shoulders. And you think you have to do it alone." His eyes change then. Grow into a darker indigo, even more fathomless. And I can see in them so clearly. See it, feel it, exactly what it is he sees when he looks at me. Who I am in his eyes. His voice drops lower, ardent and resolute as he whispers, "But you don't have to. Not anymore." A short, unamused chuckle. "Bloody hell, don't you _see_ that?"

Enthralled, completely taken in by him, I swallow. Mouth dry, I manage, "See what?"

And he knows he's got me, because his lips quirk up in the ghost of a smirk. "That we're a hell of a lot stronger together than we are apart. "

Ironically, it's the signature smirk on his lips that has me snapping back to reality. Spell broken, I shake my head. "That's not always true," I tell him, moving to pull myself out of his arms again. "Tonight—"

"Tonight," Spike repeats immediately, cutting me off, wrapping an arm around my waist to anchor me in place. He leans closer to me to ask, "When I showed up, did me bein' here make that feelin' better or worse?"

The answer comes to the tip of my tongue in an instant.

"Bet…" I start to answer him automatically, then backpedal, frowning. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Fixing me with a patented _you're too bloody stubborn for words_ look, Spike rolls his eyes. "It has to do with everythin'. We're a _part_ of each other, Buffy. Partners, mates. Two halves of one whole. Means we take the good with the bad, and we do it together." He tugs me a little closer against him, softens his voice to a comforting hum. "You don't want to hurt anyone. I don't want you to hurt anyone, because that would hurt _you_. I've had over a sodding century of dealin' with that feeling you felt tonight." He pauses, considering me through his lashes. "Might not bring a whole lot else to this connection of ours, but that…I _know_ that. I can help you with that," he swears ardently, lowering his head to mine until our foreheads are touching. He exhales, breathes, "Let me."

So I nod against him and say, "Okay."

Because after that, there doesn't seem to be anything else to say. Not that this issue is solved. Not that it's over, or something that won't be a source of major struggle and all kinds of dark and twistiness moving forward, but for now…just for now…it feels okay.

"Okay," he repeats, and there's relief there. In his voice, in the way he presses his lips to my hairline and inhales. Even if I couldn't feel it so strongly coming from him, moving over me in waves, I'd know that's what he's feeling. Relief that the argument is over. Relief that I've agreed. Probably, relief too that I'm not tearing myself apart inside anymore.

"Spike," I whisper, waiting for him to pull back a little so I can see his eyes. "I love you."

He smiles down at me but doesn't say it back, which doesn't bother me even the tiniest bit. He doesn't need to. Spike has always been so insanely good at this part. Telling me how he feels, how much he feels, without saying a single word. Finding ways to express sentiments that normal, average, soulful people seem to have massive amounts of trouble with. Sometimes it's subtle, like the way he listens to every single one of Dawn's stories when she gets home from school and just has to tell him something, or offering to help mom with some benign household chore.

Other times it's huge, like what he's just done for me, tonight. What he's done for me countless times before tonight. Talking to me on my back porch about mom's CAT scan. Letting me cry on his shoulder before her surgery. Dealing with the Council. Removing the chip. Moving in with me. Coming to the Magic Box tonight. Fighting that same bloodlust I'd felt tonight every second of the day.

He's always doing them. Little or big, things that don't require me to ever ask how he feels. Not about me, not about us. And it occurs to me that we're not even. That we might _never_ be even, not even if I live to be as old as he is now.

It's with this thought in mind that the wheels start turning, even as Spike, seemingly oblivious, presses one last lingering kiss to my forehead. He pulls away from me and asks, "You wanna head home now?"

I inhale and answer, "I want to get married."

Spike stares at me for a minute. Eyes on my face, searching it for something. Maybe a subtle hint that I'm joking, or maybe that he's heard me wrong. After a moment he swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, and steps away from me.

"You want…" he trails off, narrowing his eyes in disbelief. "What, _now_?"

I nod, unwavering. "Right now."

Still frowning, still hesitant, he says, "You said you wanted to wait until after this mess with the soldier boys blew over."

"I changed my mind," I say simply, shrugging. Like this isn't a huge deal. Like it had been my idea the entire time and not his, not something he'd had to keep talking me into in those days directly after the decision had been made.

He must be thinking the same thing, because his eyes go wide.

"Buffy," he says slowly, his voice soft and low, "you've been through a lot tonight. Got lots to wrap that pretty head of yours around. Now isn't…" he shakes his head, brow furrowed, "we haven't even told your mum yet."

"So, let's tell her," I say, side-stepping around him, wiping the last of the dried tears off my cheeks as I pass. And like clockwork, Spike's hand snakes out and catches me around the stomach, spinning me around to face him again.

Catching me in his arms, holding me fast, he says my name like I'm a little kid who's trying to weasel their way into the cookie jar. "Buffy."

I meet his gaze steadily, not running, not hiding from him. "I don't want to wait anymore," I explain in the simplest way I can.

There isn't anything else to say.

Eyes softening a little in understanding, or what he thinks is understanding, my vampire sighs. "Look, we don't have to rush—"

"No," I cut him off, and this time it's my turn to reach up and trap his face between my hands. Forcing him to look at me, to see the sincerity and super seriousness in my eyes, I say, "This is _us_ , Spike. Think about all the totally insan-o things that have happened to us over the last three months alone. Mom getting sick, and then…with us and the connectedness. The claim, the Council, the Initiative. Your chip being removed, and then your memory…you almost died. _I_ almost died. And now this, with Riley. I…" I let the sentence trail off because I don't really know what else to say, then shake my head, letting my hands slip from Spike's cheeks down to the curve of his throat. "Who knows what'll happen tomorrow?"

We stare at each other for an extended second as he considers what I've said. Then, slowly, purposefully, he reaches up and takes my hands in his, brings them together in front of himself and asks quietly, "You're sure about this?"

"It doesn't have to be a thing, we can just do it ourselves for all I care. I just…all this stuff. The ...mates. Two halves of one whole. I get all that, I do." Embarrassed suddenly, realizing that for the first time since he's brought it up that I'm the one talking about it, I'm the one pushing for it, I tear my eyes away from his. "You know, I get that it all probably matters a lot more than a stupid…title change, or whatever. But I…I want this." _I want you._ "To be able to call you my…"

"Husband," he supplies for me, the word rolling off his tongue, a sparking little current of pleasure rippling between us as he raises my clasped hands to his lips and kisses them.

My eyes find his again from over my knuckles, and I get all gooey on the inside. All the horror and pain and fear from earlier in the evening all but forgotten, shoved aside in favor of soaking up every last inch of the way he's looking at me now. "Yeah."

"This is really what you want, then?" he asks me, bringing my hands back down, still clasped together.

Feeling my own flood of relief, practically tasting him giving in to me, I smile. Say, "It really is."

Without missing a beat, Spike brings my hands up again and hooks them behind his neck, bringing us nose to nose. He smiles at me, tickles the tip of my nose with his, and the sudden flood of warmth in a steady, unbroken line between us now is staggering. It washes over me in a wave, wraps around me, cocooning me as tangibly in its embrace as Spike is holding me in his. And then he leans toward me, starts to speak. The words are little more than heated whispers, and they have a soft rhythm, just enough of a cadence to let me know he's probably reciting something from memory.

"'I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where." He sweeps a hand up my back to draw me even closer to him, begins trailing kisses across my jaw. "I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;" continuing up, toward my ear, "so I love you because I know no other way than this." And he stops then. His cheek pressed against mine, his lips at my ear, and holds for a moment. Pauses meaningfully, grip possessive at the back of my neck. He lifts my hand and presses it to his chest, where his heart is, and continues, "To where _I_ does not exist, nor _you_ , so close that your hand on my chest is my hand," his free hand splays on top of mine, holding my hand to his chest, "so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.'"

He lets the words linger for a moment, hanging in the air, touchable and poignant and weighty between us, before he finally pulls back. His eyes are bright, twinkling azure as they gaze knowingly into mine.

"Oh," I breathe, suddenly totally light headed. I'm glad his arms are around me, because otherwise I'd be a puddle of Buffy shaped slush on the wet sewer floor. "Whoa."

"C'mon," Spike says suddenly, reaching down to grasp my hand. And then suddenly we're flying back down the tunnel. I'm not even sure which direction we're headed, I've gotten so turned around.

And my head is still all light and my skin is all tingly and now all I can smell is him, leather and smoke and mint and the Irish spring soap Mom buys and it's heady and intoxicating and oh, God, we're actually doing it.

We're getting married.

We're getting _married?_

"Where are we going?" I manage to ask, nearly tripping over my own feet in boot heels far too high and not at all suited to tunnel running.

Spike doesn't stop, barely even slows down to toss a glance over his shoulder at me. "Can't tie the proverbial knot without your mum there, pet." He turns back to face forward, raising his voice a little so I can still hear him clearly. "Or Niblet." Another pause, and I swear I hear him groan as he says, "Or those sodding goody-two-shoes friends of yours."

"Technically, they're _our_ friends, now." At that, the vampire grinds to halt, turning back to face me with a deep set grimace on his handsome face. I look at him, a satisfied grin tugging at my lips. "What's mine is yours and all that stuff."

"Oh, bloody hell," he growls, like it's something he hasn't thought of before. "Is it too late to call the whole thing off?"

I grin wider at him, laughing, leaning forward until my lips are bare inches from his. Keeping my eyes locked on his, watching the way the dance and sparkle in the darkness, I whisper, "Shut up, Spike."

And then I kiss him to make sure that he does.

He responds to me immediately, clutching me to him, one hand dropping to loop around my waist while the other goes to the nape of my neck, threading through the fine hair there. He kisses me hard, and deep. Tongue slipping between my lips, tasting every corner of my mouth. Every sweep is slow and deliberate and possessive and every inch of my body, every pulsing pump of my blood is shouting out a delirious, dizzying chorus of _mine!_

He kisses me until I'm breathless, until my lips are numb and my lungs are burning.

"Fine then," he groans as he pulls away from me, letting me suck in a deep, much needed gulp of air. "Those sodding friends of _ours_. Whole buggering gang has to be there, for your sake. Besides," he says mischievously, eyes sparking like he's just had a brilliant idea. "We'll be needin' someone to officiate, yeah?"


	45. Chapter 44

Giles spends a long time just staring at us.

One hand in his jacket pocket, the other drumming absently against his leg. Lips pursed thoughtfully. I'm starting to feel a little nervous that maybe we haven't thought this through as his eyes move steadily back and forth between Spike and I. That maybe we should have gone about this a different way, rather than cornering Giles just as he'd been trying to lock up the magic shop. That maybe I shouldn't have just gotten all blurty about this marriage business. Granted, no, my Watcher's expression isn't really a _this is a terrible idea_ face, but it isn't exactly _this is a great idea_ face, either. But still.

He just stares at us. Blinking a lot.

Finally, just when I'm about to break the all too awkward silence, he sighs, folds his arms over his chest and says, "I'm getting the most unsettling sense of Deja vu."

I jump on that, because it's not a no.

"To be fair," I begin slowly, taking advantage of the fact that he doesn't seem to be totally freaking out yet, "last time I only asked you to give me away. Not to—"

"Marry you," Giles finishes for me, voice flat, eyebrows raised.

Okay, so, again. Not a _no_. True, when he says it like that, it does sort of sound big with the crazy. But he isn't saying no. He isn't even saying not to do it, or that we're being rash, or assuming that Willow's gone all spell happy again.

So I bite down on my lip and nod. "Yeah."

"And you want to do this now?" Giles presses, brow furrowed. " _Here_?"

"Actually, I was kind of thinking we could do it at the house," I tell my Watcher cautiously, feeling the welcome, weighty presence of Spike's hand when he reaches out to weave his fingers through mine. The way my shoulders start to relax a little when he rubs his thumb over my hand, soothing away the tenseness in my muscles. "Xander's already over there with Anya. I'd just have to call Willow and Tara." I glance at Spike, feeling a renewed wave of knowing that this is the right decisions for us, I sigh. "Look, I know this is probably a total shock, and I know you probably don't approve, but—"

Giles cuts me off quietly, his eyes on the ground as he says, "You don't need my approval for this, Buffy."

I freeze, my eyes locked on Giles, my hand locked inside Spike's. And don't know which one of us is more surprised, Spike or me. Or maybe Giles. He actually looks like he might be a little surprised, too. Maybe we're all equally surprised, because for a long second none of us says anything.

"The two of you are already bound together," Giles continues by way of explanation when it becomes clear that neither I nor the vampire beside me has anything to say. "The connection and your claim, those bonds are stronger than any common marriage."

It's true. I know it's true. Spike knows it's true. I mean, it's the same conversation we've had more than once before. The same argument he'd made to me when he'd first brought up the whole marriage thing. I guess I just hadn't expected the same argument to come from my Watcher. I'd expected him to be more…Watchery, maybe? More conservative. More lecture, less quiet understanding. More with the doom and gloom and the scolding over our recklessness and the _over my dead body_.

Which makes me feel like there's definitely a what that's _way_ up.

"You aren't totally wigging," I say flatly, tightening my hand around Spike's subconsciously, seeking the reassuring pressure of his palm against mine. I keep my eyes glued to Giles, whose eyes are still on the ground as I ask, "Why aren't you totally wigging?"

He chuckles appreciatively, like it's a good question.

"Truthfully, I'm not sure." He finally meets my eyes again, reaching a hand up to tug his glasses off his face in the process. There's a brief pause as he thinks about my question, then half shrugs. "Perhaps I'm just not all that surprised. The two of you haven't exactly done things by the book, have you?"

"Sort of depends on which book you're readin'," Spike drawls, exchanging a sidelong glance with me. I squeeze his hand and he smiles at me in a soft, small way that has my insides going all gooey in a way that has nothing to do with the flood of warm rippling down my spine. Because that soft, small smile isn't the connection.

It's something much purer than that.

I turn back toward Giles in time to see his lips quirk ruefully as he nods his head. "Yes, well. I suppose this feels like the next most natural progression." There's a pause as his brow furrows. Then, "If any of this can be considered natural at all."

I'm still waiting for the wigging to happen. Waiting for the yelling and the telling me how reckless I'm being. I'm still waiting for that when Spike presses into my hand again, his eyes finding mine and eyebrows going up in encouragement.

I nod, take a deep breath in, turn back toward my Watcher and ask, "So?"

"Oh, that was a yes," Giles says quickly, turning his eyes back to mine and placing his glasses back on his nose. "Sorry. Was I not clear?"

Wow.

And I'd had a whole, super convincing Buffy speech prepared and everything.

"Wow," Spike murmurs dryly, unknowingly echoing my thoughts.

I nod my head in agreement. "I thought that would take a lot more convincing."

That has Giles smirking, giving a sardonic chuckle as he nods. "Yes, well, maybe it would have a few months ago. But with all the things I've seen…" he trails off, the smirk falling, leaving the words unspoken between all three of us. His eyes soften around the edges as he gazes down at me. "All the things the two of you have…been through. I'd be remiss if I didn't acknowledge how much you appear to have helped one another."

And he means it, I think. There's no double edge to his words, no hint that he's just trying to appease me. His eyes don't waver from mine. Beside me, Spike squeezes my hand again. If I'd been surprised before, I'm flat out floored now.

"Thank you, Giles," I manage softly, just as Spike slips his hand from mine and reaches around my waist instead, pulling me against him. He won't say anything to Giles, I know, but I can feel it. How happy the older man's words have actually made him. How far it seems like we've all come. I lean into Spike's embrace, keeping my eyes on my Watcher as I say, "Really, it…it means a lot to me." I glance toward my vampire. "Now we just need to tell mom."

"Now you just need to _what_?" Giles asks, bringing my eyes back to his. All traces of softness from a moment ago gone as his hands fall to his hips. "Joyce doesn't _know_?"

I purse my lips sheepishly in response to that.

So, I'd known it hadn't been the best idea to tell Giles before we'd talked to Mom about all this. The marriage of her oldest daughter is…well, it's kind of a big deal. But Spike had wanted to nail Giles down first, before he'd left the Magic Box, so I'd agreed.

"Don't wager it'll come as much of a shock, though," Spike says off handedly, his arm tugging me even tighter into his side as he does. I feel Spike's shoulder press into mine, the warm, gooey feeling from before still pervading my stomach. Shifting through every inch of me, loosening my muscles, tingling across my skin. I should probably be more concerned over the fact that we haven't told Mom yet, but it's so hard to feel anything other than pleasantly buzzed.

"Still," I say in response to Giles, his wide eyes, stricken facial expression. "We should probably go and…talk to her about it." I turn in toward Spike, finding his eyes. "Ya know, _before_ people start showing up."

He nods in response, suddenly looking just the slightest bit nervous. "Right," he says softly, and immediately a sharp pang of anxiety twists up in my stomach. I know it isn't mine. I'd had a feeling this might have been the issue before, the last time we'd brought up the idea of telling Mom.

"She's going to be more than fine with this," I reassure Spike sweetly now, placing my hand at the crook of his elbow, squeezing just once. "Okay?"

His relief is tingling, palpable through the connection and the softening of his azure eyes as he nods again.

I lean forward and press a lingering kiss to my vampire's cheek before turning back once more to Giles. "You coming?"

"You go on ahead," he says, giving me a small, tight smile. "I'll phone Willow and Tara and meet you."

"Need the extra time to think up some nice things to say about me, do you?" Spike asks off handedly, not entirely _not_ good naturedly. He uses the arm he's got wrapped around me to guide me slowly back toward the basement steps, and the tunnels.

I toss a glance over my shoulder in time to see Giles raise his eyebrows, clearly finding something funny. "That, yes," he admits. And then there's another wry quirk of his lips as he looks to me and adds, "And I'd rather not be around when you inform your mother that she'll be hosting a wedding in less than an hour."

We enjoy the walk back to the house.

We don't talk, and we don't take our time. We move impossibly fast through the tunnels. Not holding hands, not really even touching. We're too busy laughing. Halfway racing each other, the only sounds are our footsteps, the soft tinkling of water as it drips from pipes above us and onto the stone below. It's dark and it's hollowly quiet and it's nice, so nice.

We only slow down once we've reached the manhole cover that opens up to Revello, only slipping our hands back into one another's once we're standing on my front porch, facing my big wooden front door. Enjoying the last moment of calm. Of stillness. Because once we step inside, there's every chance that all hell will break loose.

"You ready for this?" Spike asks me softly.

I smile at him and say, "More than."

The minute we open the door, the very second we set foot inside the house, Dawn is up off the sofa and flying toward us from the living room. She's already talking, Anya and Xander following immediately on her heels, and they're talking, too.

"What happened?" Dawn asks, her voice rising high in pitch as wild, blue eyes look back and forth between me and the bleached blonde at my side. "Is everyone okay?"

I'm halfway distracted by the incessant chattering coming from Anya and Xander as Spike smiles warmly down at my sister and nods. "Everyone's right as rain, bit."

"Even Riley?" she asks, her eyes leveling on mine. "Was there a fight, or—"

"Before you say anything else," Xander interrupts her, the words leaving his lips in a rush as he steps up in front of Dawn. "Or go all Slayery with the rage and pointy sticks, it isn't _my_ fault he got out." He turns to glare at Spike. "He's got like, super stealthy ninja vamp skills or something."

Spike just smirks at him, his arm still curved comfortably around my waist. His mood remains steady, rumbling toward me, leeching into my skin through my jacket in little vibrations of warmth. He'd told me on our way back to the house that nothing anyone said was going to bother him tonight, and so far, it's looking like he'd meant it.

"Xander, it's okay," I promise him, shifting slightly out of Spike's embrace.

Obviously, that hadn't been what he'd expected.

"Oh," he says, blinking. "Right. Okay then."

"But everyone's _alive_ , right?" Dawn asks again, elbowing her way roughly back in front of Xander, moving to wrap her arms around Spike in an impulsive hug. "No dust, no blood?"

I shake my head, sharing a meaningful look with my vampire from over my little sister's shoulder. "Nope," I tell her as he lets her go and she turns to face me again. "None."

Dawn frowns at me, her eyes scanning mine for a moment before she asks, "Then why do you have serious face?"

"Because I have…" I trail off, reaching blindly for Spike's hand and wrapping mine around it. " _We_ have something else we wanted to talk to you all about. Willow, Tara and Giles are on their way over now." I glance around the entryway again, leaning forward to peek into the living room. "Where's Mom?"

"I'm here, honey," she answers me, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she comes toward me through the opposite end of the entryway, from the hallway leading in from the kitchen. She frowns when she gets close enough to take in the expression on my face, looking anxious. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine," I assure her quickly as she skirts around the small crowd in front of us, standing beside the staircase.

"Okay," I say steadily, casting a sidelong glance at Spike before sighing. "Okay, so—"

"Is this about Riley?" Xander asks suddenly, interrupting me.

To which Anya adds immediately, "He's not hunting demons again, is he?"

"Did something happen?" Mom this time, glancing from me, to the vampire at my side, to my little sister and back again.

And then there's all out chaos, one question after another, until the voice are nothing but a chorus of noise and I can't distinguish one from the other and finally have to shout for everyone to stop, to just _stop_ , so I can think again.

And they do, blinking at me. Stunned.

"Guys, _no_ ," I insist, putting one hand out in front of me in what I'm hoping is a calming gesture, keeping the other tucked firmly into Spike's. I glance around the foyer, crammed full of my family and some of my friends, taking in the expressions on their faces, ranging from panicked to frustrated, and I sigh. "This doesn't have anything to do with Riley," I finally say, eyes still bouncing from one face to the next. "This is…I mean, this is something good. _Really_ good." I nibble down on my bottom lip, the next words getting jumbled, tangled up as they leave in a rush. "And I'm hoping you guys will all think it's good, too. Not that it matters if you think it's good or not, because the decisions kind of already been made and everything. But I—"

"Buffy," Spike murmurs laughingly in my ear, cutting me off with a gentle kiss to my temple, "sweetheart. I'd just come out and say it, yeah?" He leans back away from me to meet my eyes. His are dancing. "Rip the Band-Aid off and all that rot."

And suddenly, I'm not nervous anymore. Not about what anyone's going to say, or what they'll think. Nothing anyone can say will change the way I feel. Nothing anyone can say will stop this from happening.

"Right," I agree slowly, my eyes glued to his. "Okay, right." I suck in a deep breath and turn to face the expectant faces again, smiling brightly. Steeling myself once more before I blurt out, "Spike and I are getting married."

For a blissful half second nobody says anything at all.

And then the foyer explodes into chaos again.

"Okay," Xander says, putting both hands out in front of himself as he glances around. "Is _anyone_ else getting all weird and Deja vu-y?"

Anya says something in response to him, but I don't hear it. Can't hear it over the periceing squeal of my little sister as she launches herself at me. "Oh my gosh, Buffy, this is great" Dawn gushes, slender arms winding around my neck to pull me into a big hug. "So great. _Better_ than great."

Meanwhile, Xander looks confused. Eyes glazing over as he stares at me and asks, "Is this a spell thing?" He shakes his head. "Did Willow do another spell?"

"No, Xander," I manage to get out just before Dawn squeezes me again, jumping up and down.

"We have to plan," she says in a rush, letting go of me just long enough to give another shrill, excited squeal. "We have to plan and look at those fancy bridal magazines and…"

I'm only half listening as she continues to talk, my eyes finding Mom's from across the foyer. She's hovering in the open doorway to the dining room, arms folded over her chest, expression soft. She doesn't look upset, really. She doesn't even look that surprised. She just smiles gently at me, turning slightly away as I watch Spike approach her. Watch as he leans toward her and says something to her in low tones, too low for me to hear over everyone else.

But it's something that makes her laugh.

And suddenly my heart swells with love, and something else that might be closer to jealousy. That I'm busy fielding the crazies in the foyer while Spike's getting to say something to my mom. Before me.

And Dawn's still talking, her little hands squeezing mine for all their worth. "….choose a band and flowers. Oh, and a dress! And…wait," she pauses for a breath, and I glance toward her again. "I _am_ going to be the maid of honor." She scrunches her nose up expectantly. "Right?"

I don't have it in me to break he heart just yet. To tell her we hadn't planned on having a wedding. That we hadn't even planned on having anyone else _be_ there, let alone the whole flowers and music and…dress thing.

"Uh, I…" I stammer, looking up, watching as my mom and my vampire slip into the dining room and head for the kitchen. I frown, looking back toward Dawn to say, "Just give me a second to talk to Mom, okay?"

She nods and I squeeze her hands once more before letting her go, dodging Xander and his glazed, judgy eyes even as he's vaguely still trying to talk to me to follow the path I'd just seen Spike and Mom take.

When I push against the swinging kitchen door and step inside, I find them sharing a very tender looking hug. My heart clenches, tightening happily in my chest, the same soft surge of love and ting of jealousy flaring in my stomach. But the love is a whole lot stronger than the jealousy, now. Now, with the chaos and the chattering still going on out in the entryway and the scene unfolding in front of me.

And I instantly regret not giving them a little more time to talk.

They don't spot me until after they pull apart, and I'm glad, though I'm certain Spike sensed me long before saying anything. Mom's eyes are wet as she smiles, opens her arms out to me and says, "Oh, Buffy."

It's all the invitation I need.

I'm in her arms in a second, wrapping my own arms probably just a little too tightly around her waist, letting her pat my hair. I don't realize I'm crying until the first tear drops soak into the soft blue of her t-shirt, staining it darker. Even then, I don't even know _why_ I'm crying. I'd meant what I'd told Spike earlier, when we were at the Magic Box. Never once had the thought occurred to me that Mom would be anything but accepting, or excited. She'd been nothing but accepting of us since day one. I hadn't really thought this would be any different.

Still. Maybe I'd been worried at the idea of springing it on her. That the shock would be a damper on everything else.

It's what I'm thinking when I sniffle and pull away from her, murmuring "I know this is probably a surprise."

Mom smiles at me, reaching forward to brush her thumb under my eye. "I'm not surprised, honey. I'm…a little caught off guard. But I'm not surprised you'd want to get married." She tosses a wry glance in Spike's direction, one eyebrow raised. "A little surprised that you'd want to have a _wedding_."

"Oh, we don't," he says breezily, leaning against the island countertop and crossing his arms over his chest.

That has Mom frowning for the first time. "What?"

"We don't want to have a _wedding_ , wedding," I begin to explain, looking toward Spike like I'm half expecting him to help me here. "No cake or flowers or…church or anything." I shrug lamely. "I'm not exactly the poofy white dress type of bride, anyway."

"Just wanted somethin' small," Spike adds now, still leaning against the kitchen island as Mom looks at him. "Just family, the Scoobies. And the Watcher, o'course." He inclines his head toward me. "Slayer and I already asked if he'd officiate."

He seems to realize his mistake at the exact same moment I do. A soft wave of guilt rushes toward me, pitching my stomach, tightening across my chest in a much less pleasant way than before as Mom turns back toward me.

"Rupert?" she asks me softly, and it kills me. The quiet hurt there, the tinge of disappointment. "You…told Rupert before you told me."

"I know," I say immediately, wanting to bury myself in her arms again. Go back and rewind. Tell her about it the very second Spike and I had first decided all this. But I can't, so instead I reach of her hand, hold it gently in both of mine. "I'm sorry, Mom. I…we should have told you first. I know we should have."

"That's my fault, Joyce," Spike says, pushing himself off the island. He shifts guilty eyes toward me, and he doesn't have to say anything. Doesn't have to say the apology out loud for me to know he's sorry. "My idea to nail Rupert down before comin' back here."

But Mom doesn't look hurt anymore. She just looks confused, her brow furrowed. "Why was it so important to ask Rupert to officiate tonight?" she asks him, looking back and forth between the two of us.

Of course. _Now_ I'm getting the confusion I'd been expecting earlier.

"Well…see, here's the funny part," I begin slowly, her hand still held tightly in mine as I chuckle nervously. I share another glance with Spike, who widens his eyes as if to say _just do it already_. I look back toward Mom, smile wide. "We'd been planning to wait until this whole weird Initiative thing blew over. But I don't know when that's going to be exactly, so—"

"So we want to do it tonight," the vampire finishes for me, stepping forward purposefully.

And _there's_ the shock I'd been waiting for.

"Tonight," Mom repeats blankly, wide eyes looking back and forth between the two of us for a moment before finally settling back on me. "You want to get married _tonight_?"

I bite down on my bottom lip and nod, murmuring, "Giles is on his way over now."

Mom seems to digest this information for a moment. Then she reaches toward me, grabbing me gently by the shoulders.

"Buffy, honey," she says softly, rubbing her hands up and down my arms as she ducks her head to meet my eyes. "Are you sure about this? We can wait. We can plan the whole thing out." She glances over her shoulder at Spike, then back to me. "Maybe not a church wedding, but we'd have time to pick out a dress at least."

"She's right, pet," Spike agrees, his voice quiet and soothing from over to my right. I tear my gaze away from Mom's to meet his, and I can tell by the look on his face that he means it. Maybe grudgingly, but he means it. "I mean, I don't…"I watch his shoulders heave as he takes in a deep unneeded breath, and nods his head. "Love that you want to do this now. But if you'd rather do this the proper way. If you'd rather have the band and the flowers and the poofy dress like Dawn was sayin'," he waves his hand dismissively, "you know I wouldn't mind."

I shake my head instantly and say, "I don't want to wait."

Because it isn't even a question for me anymore.

And the bright, dimple showing smile I'm rewarded with is worth the non-wedding having a million times over. "Good," my vampire says, eyes doing that twinkling, dancing thing again.

"You know," Mom says, sighing wistfully as she releases me, lifting a hand to run it through the ends of my hair. "Your sister's going to be so disappointed."

I smile at her. "I don't see any reason why I can't still have a maid of honor just because this won't be the most traditional of weddings."

"I guess I don't see why, either," Mom agrees, smiling wryly at me before looking once again at Spike. "This is so like you two, anyway…making up your own rules as you go."

The vampire and I exchange a look and I say, "That's sort of what Giles said."

Mom laughs at that, like it makes the most sense in the world. Then she sighs fondly, in that mom sort of way where she knows nothing she could possibly say in this moment will change my mind. "I'm going to go upstairs, see if I can't find something a little…nicer for you to wear, Buffy." She gives the two of us one last knowing look before letting her eyes settle on me. "Come up when you're ready?"

I smile widely at her and nod. "Thanks, Mom."

She nods in response, squeezing my hand once more before turning and exiting the kitchen, the sounds of the chaos still erupting in the foyer reaching my ears more clearly as she passes by the swinging door and out into the living room. I wince, turning back toward my vampire and wrinkling my nose up.

"Not too late to do a runner, pet," Spike teases, stepping up into my personal space, his eyes focusing in on the door behind my back as his hands find their way to my waist. He tugs me against him.

I chuckle and shake my head, tilting my chin up so I can see his face better. "Yes, it is."

Spike smirks and leans toward me, pressing his lips to the corner of my jaw. "Should've just bloody eloped," he growls into my skin, nipping at me lightly.

"You know," I tell him thoughtfully, worming my hands up to his chest to lightly push him away from me, "it's totally bad luck to see the bride before the wedding."

"Thought that was only if you were wearin' the white poofy dress," Spike counters in a low murmur, sliding his mouth over my jaw to plant a sinfully soft, barest hint of a kiss on my lips.

"It's probably bad luck to kiss the bride before the wedding, too," I whisper against him, pushing him a little more firmly away from me as I do.

Spike sighs, shifts back on his heels. Looking down at me with one raised brow, he asks, "Anyone ever tell you you're a real buzzkill?"

"Go _downstairs_ ," I say, emphasizing the word as I smile at him, move my grip to his arms to spin him around toward the basement door. "Get ready."

"Get _ready_?" he scoffs, tossing me with a sardonic smirk over his shoulder.

"Yes, get ready," I tell him again, laughing lightly. Planting my hands on his hips to walk him forward. "If I have to get ready you have to get ready, too." We end just in front of the basement doors and I press a kiss to the back of his neck, give him a playful pat on the butt and jump backward, turning around and exiting the kitchen before he can get another word in edgewise.

Of course, the second I set foot back into the foyer I'm immediately wishing I'd just gone downstairs with Spike instead. Maybe went ahead and made with that runner he'd mentioned.

Because Giles, Tara and Willow have just arrived. Or, I think they've just arrived. It's hard to tell with all the commotion. I barely make it through the dining room doorway and into the foyer before Xander is in my Watcher's face, pointing angrily back at me and demanding, "Did you know about this?"

"Xander, do calm down," Giles admonishes airily, one hand tucked in his jacket pocket and the other holding an old looking book. "I only found out half an hour ago."

"Which is still fifteen minutes before I did," Willow interjects, stepping toward me, a stricken expression on her face. Eyes wide. "Me. _Willow_. Remember me?" I can tell she's fighting the urge to physically stamp her foot. "Best friend here."

I smile at her and lean around her shoulder, eyeing Giles, who's still in the process of fielding angry demands from Xander. I raise an eyebrow at him. "I see you told them already."

"Don't look at me like that," my Watcher scolds me back, both brows shooting high over the rims of his glasses. "They were asking…questions."

"You told Giles before you told me?" Willow demands heatedly, or as heatedly as Willow can manage, I guess. Which still only manages to land somewhere in the realm of mildly miffed. " _Giles_?"

The Watcher rolls his eyes and sighs loudly. "I'm still standing right here, Willow."

"Why didn't you tell me?" the red head asks me again, drawing my attention back to her. She looks like she might be on the verge of tears, which is bad.

So I wrap my hand around her wrist and tug her fully into the dining room with me, stopping and turning to face her. "Will, calm down," I tell her softly, putting my hands out in front of me as thought the gesture will work to do just that. "Yes, okay. We told Giles first because we needed someone to officiate."

"I could've officiated," she squeaks, her cheeks very red, green eyes very wide. I have a funny feeling she isn't really listening to me. "Hello, wiccan _priestess_. All in touch with Gaia and the earth and…" she trails off, pointing a finger back in the direction we just came from. "I'm closer to the mystical higher powers than _he_ is."

"Willow—" I attempt again, but she's on a roll and cuts me off immediately.

"Is this a patriarchal thing? Cause if it is, Buffy, I'm—"

" _Willow_ ," I hiss, reaching out and grabbing her by both shoulders to get her to stop. " _Not_ a patriarchal thing, okay? Just…it's what Spike wanted."

I watch the wheels starting to turn as she processes that. A beat passes. We stare at each other.

Then, "Spike _asked_ for Giles?"

I nod, watching the witch's luminous eyes go even wider.

"Oh," she breathes, seeming to realize how big of a deal that actually is for me.

"Yeah, oh," I agree.

A long moment passes between us.

"You're getting married," she finally whispers, the hint of a smile curling her mouth now.

I nod again and repeat the words. "I'm getting married."

We both break out into wide, bright smiles at the same time, laughing with each other as the red head reaches for me. Hugs me as tightly as she can. "Oh my God, Buffy, you're getting _married_! You're gonna be Mrs…" she trails off, pulling slightly away from me. "Umm, Mrs…"

"Pratt," I finish for her, laughing at the way her eyes widen further still at the mention of Spike's human last name. "Technically. Which actually reminds me…"

"Need some documentation?" she asks before I can even get the request out, like she's just read my mind. Her eyes bright and green and smiley.

"You mind?" I ask, wrinkling my nose up.

Willow just smiles a little wider, reaching for me impulsively again as she whispers, "Consider it a wedding present."

She pulls me into another tight hug just as Xander comes barreling around the corner and into the dining room, narrowly avoiding running directly into us as he does.

"Giles isn't wigging," he says in exasperation, verging on slightly hysterical. He turns abruptly on his heel and back toward the man in question, who's reluctantly followed him into the living room as well. "Why," Xander demands. " _Why_ aren't you wigging?"

"Xander," Anya begins in an attempt to calm him down, reaching for her boyfriend's arm.

"Ahn, please," he says dismissively, shaking her off and focusing back on Giles. "This is Buffy and Spike and marriage we're talking about. In that order. All in the same sentence." He pauses for effect, glowering up at my Watcher. "Do you _understand_ that?"

Giles just rolls his eyes up to the ceiling, looking about as fed up with all of this as I'm beginning to feel. "Of _course_ I understand that," he says, the words rolling past his lips on a sigh. He levels his gaze on my friend. "And because I'm not _completely_ blinded by old biases, I also understand that a marriage is relatively inconsequential when compared with the bond they already share."

The entire room goes silent. For the first time all night, since Spike and I first told everyone we were getting married, the house falls totally, blissfully silent.

Xander just stands there, blinking a lot.

Beside me, Willow's shoulders go tense. And I'm too busy wishing Spike had been up here to see this to notice that Tara's obviously fighting the urge to burst out laughing.

"That was what I was trying to tell you," Anya says quietly, pursing her lips and glancing away from the narrow eyed glare Xander tosses her way.

"Next time," he tells her, pointing a finger in her direction, "just interrupt me."

"Next time?" I ask, watching as he turns around to face me. Having the decency to look a little sheepish, at least. "You already planning your next foray into narrow mindedness?"

As if on cue, Anya, Giles and Willow slip out into the foyer to join Tara again, leaving Xander and I alone in the dining room. A place he looks like he'd really rather not be right now.

"No, I…" he trails off, obviously growing frustrated. His jaw clenches. "Look, I heard the word _marriage_ and I just freaked out, okay?"

Well, at least he isn't making excuses for it.

"Are you done freaking out?" I ask him quietly.

Xander meets my eyes. There's an extended silence. Then, he finally says, "I don't know yet."

"If you're gonna keep freaking out," I say slowly, thoughtfully. Not really wanting to say it but feeling like I need to. "Maybe you should just leave."

The moment stretches between us, filling in with a strange silence. At a standstill. Because that's what this is, I think. The defining moment. Where he has to make a decision, whether to stay and be supportive or fall out of my life all together. Because the dancing around all of it…it isn't working for me anymore. Finally, Xander frowns at me, shoulders sagging and looking defeated. But he doesn't move. Doesn't make a move to leave as I've asked.

"Too bad, though," I add off handedly, stepping a little closer to my friend, waiting for his eyes to turn up to mine again before finishing. "Spike'll be disappointed."

"Right," he scoffs, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. "I'm sure bleach boy'll be _real_ disappointed."

"It was Spike's idea to have you guys here, Xander," I tell him plainly, face as impassive as I can make it as I watch his dark eyes widen in surprise. "Not mine."

Xander gapes at me. "What?"

"I told him I'd be fine if it was just the two of us," I explain, tucking my hands into my front jean pockets. "He's the one who said we couldn't get married, not without our friends."

"Spike said that," he says slowly, voice tinged in disbelief. His eyes narrow. "He said 'our' friends?"

I nod, my eyebrows raising high as I purse my lips and say, "You wanna be the one to prove him wrong?"

There's another long moment, but it passes without the heavy silence of the first one. Xander eyes me carefully, then sighs, reaching a hand up to feather it through his hair.

Then, finally. "And give him the satisfaction of knowing he's being the better man?" he asks me, dark eyes twinkling a little as he shakes his head. "No thanks. He's already got enough to gloat about."

My lips twitch at that. "You think so, huh?"

"Please," Xander scoffs, but it's different this time. Lighter. Good natured. "With the immortality and the eyes and the cheeks. And the hair." He waves a hand demonstratively over his own head of floppy brown hair. Then pauses, smiling softly, eyeing me meaningfully as he lowers his voice and says, "And the girl."

"You're right," I say softly, letting my lips curve up into a full blown smile as I nod. "Lots to gloat about. Tons, even."

Xander and I stare at each other for a moment before he finally sighs, lets his shoulders sag down again.

"I'm sorry," he says, meaning it.

"Don't be," I tell him earnestly, meaning it, too. Because being sorry isn't enough anymore. "Just _stop_."

He nods, smiles. Feeling relieved, I smile back. Then he reaches out and loops an arm around my shoulders, tugging me into his side for a squeeze. Ruffling my hair with his fingers as he leans in and jokes, "Consider it a wedding present."

"I'm sorry we don't get to do the whole planning thing, Dawnie," I tell my sister through Mom's bathroom door, stepping into the un-Godly amount of ruffles that somehow make up the white lace and tulle skirt of Mom's wedding dress, yanking it up by the lacey long sleeves and wriggling my hips into it. I grimace at the snug fit around my waist, wondering at just how tiny Mom must have been when she married my dad. "I know you were excited about it."

"I'm cool with this, too," she tells me through the door, and I can practically picture her sprawled out on the bed, feet in the air, one of our mom's magazines laying open in front of her.

"Well _I'm_ sorry you don't get to pick out your own wedding dress."

I laugh lightly to myself, shaking my head. "I told you, Mom, it isn't about the wedding dress."

Which brings us to exhibit A, the off white ruffled monstrosity I'm still trying to shimmy my way in to. The infamous dress from 1980 that I swear would stay standing up on its own, even if no one were wearing it. Mom knows I'm not going to wear it. I know I'm not going to wear it. I'm trying it on for show, for fun. Going through the motions.

"I know it isn't," Mom says on a sigh, and again, I picture her sharing an exasperated glance and an eye roll with my little sister. "Will you let me know if you need help doing up the buttons?"

Oh, _God_ , the buttons. I'd forgotten about the buttons. I glance back over my shoulder, glaring down at the row of what has to be at least 50 lace covered buttons that line the back of the gown. As if they weren't reason enough in and of themselves not to wear Mom's dress.

Who designed this thing, Houdini?

"Uh, yeah," I mumble, shimmying the rest of the way into the dated satin bodice. "I will here in a second." I dip my right arm down into the itchy lace of one sleeve. "Just let me get…" do the same with my left, "the sleeves on…"

And then the whole hideous thing is up, on. Every ruffle in place. Every starched piece of lace digging into some part of my skin I never wanted starchy lace digging into. Itchy and stiff and _ugh_. I sigh, rolling my shoulders back, turning to face square into Mom's full length mirror.

And it's kind of gorgeous.

I stand there for a moment just blinking at the image being reflected back at me, a little stunned. I look like a bride. My hair pulled back and my makeup touched up, cheeks extra rosy and flushed from the ordeal of wiggling my way into the gown. The way the satin bodice cinches at my waist, shows off the graceful arch of my neck that's exposed by the dip of the v-neckline. My arms look long and delicate, the full length lace sleeves coming to stops at pretty little points over the backs of my hands.

And I actually _look_ like a bride.

"Buffy?" Mom presses, and I jump a little, realizing I've been silent for a while longer than maybe I should have been.

Taking one last, long glance in the mirror, I suck in a deep breath and turn around. The ruffled skirts swirl and swish around my legs as I do, tulle petticoats biting into my legs. I take a deep breath, actually surprised that I'm a little nervous, then open the bathroom door and step out.

"Well?" I ask, looking down at the skirt, running my palms over the skirt to smooth it down before risking a glance up toward where Mom and Dawn are seated on the bed.

"Oh my God," Dawn says, half gasp and half giggle.

I frown at her, wringing my hands together. "Oh my God…bad?" I bite my lip. "Or…?"

"No," she breathes, tossing the magazine aside and sitting up straight. She smiles at me and shakes her head. "Definitely not bad."

Oh. Well that's something.

"Mom?" I ask, looking toward her for approval.

She gazes back at me, unshed tears in her eyes. My chest tightens pleasantly when she extends a hand out toward me, motioning for me to come to here with the tips of her fingers. "Let me finish the buttons on the back," she says softly, her voice catching just the slightest bit.

And my eyes suddenly, inexplicably fill with tears. Because I never thought I'd have this, get this. _Feel_ this. Never thought I'd make it here. Never thought I'd find someone that would make it here with me.

Me, Buffy Summers. The Vampire Slayer. I'm standing in front of my Mom and my sister, wearing a wedding dress, about to get married. It's a moment that hadn't bared thinking about before now. Before Spike.

I step into the circle of Mom's arms and let her gently spin me around until I'm back facing Dawn and the bathroom door I've just exited. She begins doing up the buttons, swiftly, her fingers practiced. I hear her sniffle, and the smile on my lips widens a little more.

"Why are there so many of them?" Dawn asks suddenly, bringing my eyes up to hers.

"That was just the style of the day, sweetheart," Mom tells her.

I watch as Dawn smirks, a wicked little glint entering her eyes as she shifts on the bed, eyeing me and saying, "That's gonna drive Spike nuts tonight."

Mom and I both freeze. My mouth drops open.

"Oh, what?" my little sister asks, folding her arms up over her chest and tilting her head to the side. "Like you expect me to believe you _haven't_ been getting all jiggy with it before now?"

There's a drawn out, awkward pause as the three of us let that settle in. And then right on cue, all three of us burst into loud, unrestrained giggles. Mom's fingers shake as she continues doing up the buttons, and the tears that had sprung to my eyes earlier pool up and slip out, catching on my lashes as I squeeze them shut, shoulders heaving.

"And _that_ would be exactly why Spike and I are moving out after all of this is over," I manage to get out between sputters.

"Probably for the best," Mom agrees, chuckling, her fingers feathering up toward the middle of my back and the last few buttons. Then she leans forward, smacks a motherly kiss on my cheek and says lowly, "For all of us."

"Oh my _God_ ," I half shout, whirling around to face her, my cheeks hot, blazing red as she moves back around toward Dawn, the two of them now giggling away at me.

"Oh, Buffy, sweetheart," Mom says on a sigh, reaching up to dab her own laugh-tears away, "Why do you think I wanted Spike in the basement?"

I gape at her, my cheeks impossibly hot.

"Ugh, ew, that's just… _ew_ ," I say, torn between wanting to burdt into more giggles and wanting to run and hide. True, yeah, Mom and Dawn talking to me about my sex life is totally wig worthy, but on the other hand it feels really nice. This moment, just us Summers girls. Teasing and giggling like we aren't just family, but friends. Another little dose of normal in a situation where I'd kissed normal goodbye long ago. "Can we just focus on the task at hand, please?"

"Do you want to wear the dress, Buffy?" Mom asks me, still smiling, eyes bright, but no longer giggling. She appraises me, looking me up and down a few times before meeting my gaze again. "You know you don't have to."

I do know I don't have to. It hadn't even been a question ten minutes ago. Hadn't even crossed my mind before I'd put the thing on and suddenly felt all _Bridal Guide_ about it. Still, Spike and I had agreed…no poofy white dresses. And this dress is most definitely poofy, even if it isn't quite white anymore.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek and shrug, glancing down at the swishing, ruffled skirt again. "But you wore it."

"Yes," she agrees gently, and I glance up to see her smiling warmly at me again. "I wore it. That doesn't mean much. Your father and I had the big wedding. In the church with the flowers and the music and the dress." She pauses, folds her arms across her waist and asks, "Look how that turned out?"

I nod thoughtfully, nibbling on my cheek a little longer before releasing it. Sighing. Tangling my fingers into the ruffled satin skirt. "You won't be disappointed if I don't wear it?"

Mom shakes her head. "I'll be disappointed if you do wear it when you don't really want to."

"Are you nervous?" Dawn asks me suddenly, drawing my eyes back down to hers.

I frown, brow furrowing. "I…no. Why?" I ask, reaching a hand up to lay it across my flushed cheek. Brushing my free hand down over the satin skirt again. "Do I look nervous?"

Dawn thinks about this for a moment, considering me with a tilt of her head. "No," she says slowly, thoughtfully, giving a little shake of her head. "You look…"

"Beautiful."

My eyes dart toward Mom's open bedroom doorway, finding the warm, sparkling indigo I'd been expecting to immediately. They aren't on my face, though. Spike's eyes are running a slow, heady trail over the expose arch of my neck, my clavicle, the v-neckline, over the bodice of the gown. Up one lace sleeve, across my collar bone and down the other. Drinking me in.

I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows once, hard.

Then his eyes finally meet mine, and he smiles.

I smile back.

"Whatever you decide is fine, honey," Mom tells me then, and I see her motioning for Dawn to come with her out of the corner of my eye as she moves around the edge of her bed. "Tonight is about you." She reaches out and squeezes Spike's hand once as she passes him in the doorway, turning to glance at me one more time. "We'll be downstairs when you're ready."

"What'd I say about the bad luck?" I ask him as soon as their footsteps have disappeared down the hallway.

"Don't care," Spike says simply, moving toward me at a surprising speed, wrapping an arm around my cinched in waist and hauling me against him. He doesn't kiss me, though. Just stares down at me through his lashes, tilting his head to the side. He reaches his free hand up and feathers it across the lace neckline of the dress, asking softly, "This your mum's?"

"What gave it away, the abundance of satiny ruffles or the never ending lace?" I ask, sounding just way too breathless and cover of a romance novel-y. I think it's the way he's holding me against him, my back automatically arching against his arm.

Or it could be the way he's looking at me.

His eyes flash hungrily as his lashes fan up, lips curving up at the edges as he asks, "You don't like it?" His free hand is moving now, so slowly, brushing over the lace at my shoulder and on down my arm.

"No, actually, I kind of love it," I tell him honestly, ducking my gaze and blushing when this seems to please him, a flood of all out heat rocketing straight to my center. I sigh then, lashes fluttering as I force myself to meet his eyes again. "But it doesn't feel very…me. I want to feel like me."

Spike nods, dropping his free hand down to mine. "Then go change, pet."

I frown at him, thrown a little by that reaction after the reaction I'd just gotten a moment ago from the dress. All caveman-like and grr and…with the romance noveling. "But–"

"No buts," he says, tsking me gently. "Now I've seen you in the white dress, luv. And you look…glorious." He lifts my hand to his lips, leaving a light kiss across the knuckles before lowering it again. Looking at me very seriously. "But I'd rather you be standin' in front of me thinkin' about what we're sayin' to each other than thinkin' about how much you don't _really_ want to be wearing some sodding gown."

He's right. As fun as it is to play dress up, to put on the gown and waltz around the house, I hadn't been lying when I'd told him it wasn't me. The dress is beautiful, and stiff, and all too perfect…and not me. Not _us_. Not my vampire, my Spike. Spike, who's standing in front of me wearing what I dimly recognize as his nicest pair of black jeans. And the shirt.

My lips twitch up into a bright smile when I notice he's wearing the silky black button down with the grey pattern. The dream shirt.

And that's when I know what I want to wear to our wedding.

"Can you…with the buttons?" I ask him, shifting slightly, turning in his arms to indicate what it is I'm talking about. "I can't reach."

Spike doesn't say anything. Just nods, eye-smiling at me as he finishes turning me around. Begins undoing the buttons with equally deft fingers, soft and cold when they periodically graze across my skin, sweeping down my back, button by satin covered button.

"What are you thinking?" I ask after a little while, turning my head slightly over my shoulder, trying to see his face.

The vampire chuckles tenderly, the sound dripping like honey down my spine as his fingers sweep over it. Smooth and soft, and as warm as the rush of soft affection and desire that accompanies it. "I'm thinkin' I'm bloody glad I won't have to be doin' this later tonight."

I smile at him when his eyes flick up toward mine, turning back around to face forward as I say, "Dawn said the same thing."

"Bloody hell," Spike groans, his hands having reached the buttons at the small of my back. He pauses in his movements, leans forward and presses a surprisingly ardent kiss into the bared skin between my shoulder blades. Murmurs, "We need to move out."

"We will," I tell him, inhaling deeply, missing the feel of his lips when he pulls away from me. A beat passes in silence. Then, "What are you really thinking?"

I feel a rush of cold air over my skin as he sighs. "That I've never been more grateful to Drusilla than I am now."

I freeze. "So, not _exactly_ what a girl wants to hear just before her wedding, but—"

"For turnin' me, luv," he explains quickly, picking up his movements again. More slowly this time. Thoughtfully, his words as gentle and measured as his movements. "Wouldn't be standing here with you right now if she hadn't."

Oh.

 _Oh_.

That…actually makes sense.

"Right," I murmur, "the immortality thing."

"Not just that," Spike counters evenly. Just simple, matter of fact. "Even bein' what I am…what she made me. Helps that _you're_ drawn to the darkness. Who I was before?" he asks me wryly. "Girl like you…never would'a looked twice at him."

I turn to glance over my shoulder again at that, moved by his words. Moved by the need to let him know how wrong they are. "That isn't true."

Spike chuckles again, and I feel rather than see him nod his head. I can picture this, too. Not like he agrees with me but that he doesn't think it's worth arguing over. He sighs softly, saying, "Doesn't matter anyway, yeah? You're mine now." His hands still and he leans forward and drops a kiss to my shoulder, dropping his voice to a whisper. "All done."

I press my hands into the bodice of the gown to keep it pinned to my chest, turning back around to look at my vampire. "Thanks," I say, smiling up at him. Feeling a small, butterfly wing of a thrill that I don't think has anything to do with the connection when he smiles back at me. "Just give me two seconds, okay? I'll meet you downstairs."

I'm not surprised to see Spike waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs when I round the corner, stepping up onto the landing. His back is turned to me, head bowed slightly. Platinum curls a little tousled, like maybe he's been running his fingers through his hair repeatedly. And as I stand there and stare down at him, words come to mind. All the different words I've come to know him by.

Vampire. Enemy. Friend. Lover. Mate.

 _Husband._

I feel a swell in my chest at that, the pounding of my heart as it begins to race, blood rushing in my ears. I clear my throat, waiting expectantly for Spike to turn around and look at me before I gesture down at my clothing and ask, "Better?"

His eyes are bright, and he's giving me one of those world ending, dimpled smiles when he replies, "Bloody perfect."

I smile back and start to descend the stairs, ducking my gaze and blushing all over again as his eyes darken, he continues to take in my outfit of choice. Tight fitting denim jeans, high heeled boots and a plain t-shirt.

The exact same thing I'd been wearing the night we'd completed the claim.

Spike holds his hand out to me when I reach the third step from the bottom, helping me down the rest before using his grip to spin me around, tug me into his arms. Ducking his head as though he's about to kiss me. My eyes flutter shut, waiting for his lips to touch mine.

And then I'm being pulled out of his arms and spun around, my eyes flying open just as Spike grumbles a low "Bloody hell".

"C'mon," Dawn's saying, giggling, hands on my back as she steers me around the corner and into the dining room. "There'll be plenty of time for smoochies later. Everybody's outside waiting for you."

That makes me stutter step a little. "Outside?"

Spike's right there again, slipping in beside me, hand slipping inside mine just as Dawn finishes shoving me through the doorway to the kitchen.

We come to a stop, him giving my little sister a raised brow look before turning back toward me. "Thought we could do it standin' on the back porch," he explains a little sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders. Suddenly the very picture of sweet, sensitive insecurity. "If that's alright with you."

"More than alright," I tell him, moving to thread my fingers through his.

Dawn grins widely at us, stepping in front to slip out the back door, telling us to count to ten before we can come out. I nod, watch her disappear out onto the porch, turning back to Spike to begin counting. Enjoying the glowing, toe tingling heat that's completely enveloping us now.

And on the count of ten, he offers his arm out to me, and I take it.

Arm in arm, we step out onto the back porch, and it takes me a minute to realize what's been done. Little twinkle lights dot the trees, the cluster of bushes back by the fence, the rose bushes to our left. White and blue, and a few that might be a dark purple, making the entire backyard glow and hum and come to life in a way that's so simple, so completely understated, but perfect. No one is sitting down like I'd expected them to be. Instead, they're all standing in the grass, looking back at us. Anya and Xander on one side, Tara and Willow on the other, arms wrapped around each other, smiles on their faces. I smile warmly at my witches, both of them looking all misty eyed and wet lashed.

And then there's Mom standing in the middle, Dawn now beside her. Holding hands.

Giles is already standing out here, too. Taken his place up on the porch waiting for us. Spike puts his hand over mine, where it's wrapped over his arm, and leads me further out onto the porch, maneuvering us around seamlessly until we're standing, facing each other on the uppermost step, Giles standing on the landing just above us.

A hush falls over all of us. For a moment, the only sounds are the silvery rustle of leaves as the breeze blows, the soft murmur from Willow as she leans over and whispers something to Tara.

Then Giles finally clears his throat, and with both of my hands held firmly in both of Spike's, I turn my head up to look at him.

"Uh, right then," he begins slowly, a little awkwardly. For all the speechifying Giles does I don't think he's used to this many people, all of us included, actually _listening_ to him at the same time. "I must admit I'm not entirely sure how to go about doing this. Marrying my Slayer to a vampire." He thinks about that a moment, then amends, "A master vampire, no less. Suffice it to say it's a little unorthodox, and more than a little unprecedented. Which I suppose is only fitting for the two of you."

There's a low murmur of agreement from behind us, a soft, knowing chuckle from the vampire in front of me. I blush and look down toward our enjoined hands, feeling the steady pulse flowing between us. Warm and soft, rumbly, vibrating. Lapping at my spine in gentle waves.

Encouraged by the response he's gotten from his audience, Giles smiles warmly at me when I look back up at him again. Watch as he inhales deeply through his nose, out again through his mouth. Then nods.

"I'm your Watcher, Buffy," he says, and this time I feel like he really is talking to me. Just to me. "And as your Watcher I have watched you. I've watched you grow, watched you change. Watched you make mistakes, a-and watched you learn from those mistakes. I've watched you risk your life time and again for the people around you, the ones you love. I've watched you make countless decisions that I confess I _haven't_ agreed with." His gaze shifts away from mine for the first time, moving pointedly toward Spike with a raised eyebrow. But then his eyes soften, and he glances back to me as he says, his voice soft, "And I've watched as you've continually managed to prove me wrong. I've watched you grow into the incredible Slayer, the extraordinary young woman, that you've become. I've… _watched_ you." He pauses then, sighing. And I'm grateful for the reprieve, because my eyes are already burning, lashes already wet. Looking up at the only real father figure I've ever had as he looks back and forth between Spike and I, a knowing, thoughtful expression on his face. "But I've never really _seen_ you. Not the way that…" his gaze finally lands on my vampire, "Spike does. He sees you in a way I never could. Not as a charge or daughter, or as a friend. Not as a savior, and not merely as the Slayer." I squeeze Spike's hands in mine, eyes burning, vision blurred when Giles looks back at me. "He…sees you as an equal. A partner. A perfect counterpart." He raises his eyebrows. "A woman. And I believe it's more than mere prophecy. It isn't just the connection, or the claim, that draws the two of you together. You are Slayer and vampire, but you are also two people in love." And this time, he turns his eyes up and out, scanning the crowd of our family and friends from over our heads as he says, "And at this point the rest of us would have to be well and truly blind not to notice. Now," he says, looking purposefully back at me, "did the two of you…have vows?"

I blink, wet eyes going wide.

Vows.

Oh, _God_.

"Oh," I say, somehow, shockingly caught off guard. I turn toward Spike, blinking rapidly. "I don't…I mean, I didn't…"

Spike brushes one of his thumbs over the edge of my hand, infusing me with a softness and a calm that only he's been able to manage as he ducks his head, meets my eyes and say softly, "Let me then?"

I soften everywhere, tighten my grip on his hands and nod.

When my vampire speaks again, his voice is soft. Impossibly low. So quiet that I honestly think he's speaking for my ears only. From the distance everyone else is standing, I'm fairly positive only Giles might be able to hear him.

And I'm glad. I'm glad that his words, these words, are for my ears only when he breathes in and says, "I'm in love with you. Wholly, selfishly…in a want you all to my bloody self, can't even fathom sharin' you with anyone else, possessive kinda way. I'm in love with you." He stops then, pauses, which is good because I suddenly can't breathe. The way he's looking at me now…I can't breathe. Then he exhales, widening dark, navy blue eyes. "But I also love you…and that has nothin' to do with me. I love what you are, what you do, how you try. I've seen your kindness and your strength. I've seen the best and the worst of you. And I understand with perfect clarity exactly what you are." He pauses, grins widely at me and whispers, "You're the one, Buffy."

It's my turn. My turn to say my vows. I know that's how this works. That he goes, then I go. One then the other. That's how weddings work. I've been to them before, so I know that.

But I can't talk yet because I'm crying.

Sniffling, lashes wet and stuck together as hot, salty tears fill my eyes and slip down my cheeks, pooling at the base of my throat for the second time tonight which is just…ridiculous. And silly. And so, so lame. But I kind of can't help it, so I don't try. And these at least are happy tears. _Really_ happy tears.

I don't know if I've ever actually cried happy tears before.

"I, umm," I stammer, sniffling, laughing through the happy tears as Spike lets go of my hand and reaches up to wipe at my cheeks, "I'm no good at this. At the words thing. But…I'll try." And something sparks in my head at that, and I think, maybe, I know what it is I want to say. I smile and drop my voice down low to say, "I promise to _always_ try for you. I promise to take you as you are. As my friend. As the other half of my whole. As my husband. With all your faults and your demons, and your strengths. I promise to help you when you need it." I pause, thinking about the conversation we'd had in the tunnels earlier, smiling softly and saying, "And I promise to ask you for help when I need it. I choose you, Spike. I choose you as my partner." I have to pause one more time, the air catching in my lungs and my voice tremulous when I manage to speak again. Keeping my eyes steady, glued to his, enjoying every ounce of affection, abject adoration and love I'm feeling from him. "And I will keep choosing you, every minute of every day."

Spike smiles tenderly at me, his eyes deep and fathomless and a tiny bit misty as he murmurs, "Not bad, Slayer."

Which makes me laugh again.

"Right, well…" Giles trails off, and when I take the chance to look back up at my Watcher, he's looking at me softly. "With… _whatever_ power it is I have vested in me, I suppose I now pronounce you husband and wife." Spike and I look back at each other, practically vibrating in anticipation of the next words. The moment stretches on, mounting silence, tenseness wrapping itself around us like a blanket. Then Giles chuckles, leaning toward Spike conspiratorially to say, "You should kiss your bride before I change my mind."

And he does. Uses his grip on my hands to hook my arms around his neck, wraps his arms around my back and lifts me into his arms. Covers my lips with his in a kiss that's both wild and pure, deep and slow. A chorus of laughter, of little whoops and claps and cheers sounds off from our peanut gallery, but I hardly notice. Because in the moment it's just us. There's no other people. No family and friends watching us. No Initiative, no Riley. No nothing.

It's just the two of us as my legs close around his waist and my husband continues to kiss me.


	46. Chapter 45

I'd never given much thought to what my wedding might be like.

Never sat for hours and doodled my name and someone else's in a heart shape, or tried on different last names with a frilly Mrs. before it. Never sat and thought about the music or the cake or the flowers, or the dress. Even before I'd been called, I hadn't really been the _plan your entire dream wedding at the tender age of ten_ kinda gal. Sure, I'd thought a little about the white dress. The church. Technically, I'd planned my wedding twice...but both times had been less than pleasant. One of them ending in that awful nightmare with Angel spontaneous combusting into flames, and the other being just last year, with Spike. Aside from those two very rare moments, I'd never given much thought to the wedding. I'd never given much thought to having a wedding at all.

So I'd never thought that much about the wedding night, either.

If I had thought about my wedding night, I probably would have imagined it way differently than this. Some frilly white scrap of lace pretending to be a nightgown. Spending entirely too much time putting it on, only to have it be torn to shreds mere seconds later. Maybe some candles and champagne. Rose petals. A big, fluffy hotel bed. The works.

I doubt I'd have imagined this.

Sitting on the floor of my childhood bedroom in a pair of ratty grey sweat pants and a plain white camisole, hair thrown back in a messy ponytail, back braced against the edge of my mattress. And my new husband, my new _vampire_ husband, lying down beside me, his head perched in my lap, platinum curls tousled from where I'd been busy running my hands through them earlier. I hadn't been able to stop touching him earlier. My hand in his, my arm around his waist, my fingers in his hair. All through the little impromptu wedding reception, I'd been touching Spike.

There'd been lots of hugs. Lots of hugs and happy tears and congratulations. Mom had opened a bottle of wine, and everyone had stuck around the house long enough after our little backyard ceremony to have a glass. There'd been music, but I can't for the life of me now remember what music it had been. Then there'd been more congratulations. More hugs. More tears.

And then everyone had left.

Which had been more than fine with me, considering it's now getting close to 1:00 in the morning and Spike and I are officially the only two people still awake in the house.

He sighs now, and I look down at him, one of my hands finding its way back to his hair again as I do. Twirling a curl around my index finger as he raises his left hand up in front of his face, wiggles his fingers experimentally, making the silver band on his left ring finger shine in the lamp light.

"Gonna get you a real one, you know," Spike murmurs, turning his eyes from his ring and up toward mine, eyeing my left hand speculatively as I use it to smooth some loose hair back from my forehead.

I make a face at him, put my hand down again so I can look at it, too. "This is a real one," I tell him, admiring the plain silver band. "I won't have to take this off to go to work."

And it's exactly what I'd asked for.

Willow and Tara had offered to make us anything we wanted, including one with a massive diamond that had been admittedly stunning, but not practical for the Slayer. My thin little silver band was practical. And simple. And beautiful.

"Want one that comes from me, Buffy," he argues, lowering his own hand, splaying his fingers over his stomach. "Not one that's been bloody magicked into existence by your lover wiccas." I make a face at him, and he groans, rolling his eyes as he amends, " _Our_ lover wiccas."

"Don't act like that bugs," I tease him, threading my fingers through his hair again, tugging gently to loosen them further from the gel. "I know it doesn't."

I can feel that it doesn't. Every time I correct him, make him take equal opportunity ownership in the Scooby gang, he gets all soft and gooey about it. I don't ever bring it up, but he knows I know, and that's enough.

Spike just looks up at me another minute longer, narrowed eyes softening around the edges as he does. Everything in them is warm and soft and fathomless. Looking up at me now the way he'd looked at me before, in the sewer after the Magic Box. I look at him for a long time, pretty positive I'll never be able to get enough of that look. Of the gentle heat flowing between us. How everything about this moment feels soft and safe and warm, and then I lean down, cup his chin and the edge of his jaw in my hand and kiss him.

And his lips feel like home. Soft and safe and warm, too. With borrowed heat, probably from the blood he'd drank instead of the wine, or possibly from mine. Either way. I press my lips a little more firmly against his and inhale deeply, breathing him in as his hand winds its way to the nape of my neck. The chill of his hand is nice, and the cold of the silver band on his ring finger is even nicer. I smile a little against his lips and he holds me to him for another extended moment, then deepens the kiss with a low moan, softly slipping his tongue inside my mouth to massage mine.

The kiss is sweet. Passionate, deep and slow, and when I finally pull away from, he has this soft, almost sleepy smile on his face that reminds me that both of us are exhausted, and both of us probably need to get some sleep. I smile down at him, lean back against the edge of my bed and close my eyes. My hand still twirling strands of soft, platinum hair between my fingers.

I think I'm half asleep when he suddenly, sleepily asks, "So, where were you thinkin'?"

It registers that he's asked me something, just not so much that I need to respond. I keep my eyes closed. Inhaling through my nose, then slowly out my mouth. The lazy response leaving my lips on a soft sigh.

"Mmm?"

Spike chuckles. The sound low, rumbling in the back of his throat. Tingling down my spine. "For our honeymoon, pet," he clarifies, shifting in my lap as my eyes flutter wide open again. I blink down at him, registering the quietly smug expression on his face as he continues on. "Where were you thinkin' you'd like to go?"

I tilt my head back down, raising a skeptical brow. "You," I say slowly, narrowing my eyes slightly, "Mr. no-fluffy-weddings-for-me-thanks, want to go on a _honeymoon_?"

It sounds like I think it's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, but really I'm just surprised he's brought it up at all. The marriage, sure. That had made sense. Even our little makeshift wedding, I'd totally gotten that.

But a honeymoon? Us?

Is that…a thing we can even _do_? It's not like Slayers can just up and decide to just…take a vacation. And definitely not _now_. Not with the usual Hellmouthiness and the government sponsored demon hunter ex-boyfriend and the freaky tranquilizer dart shooting Initiative soldiers. Now doesn't seem like the time to be talking about any kind of vacation, let alone a honeymoon.

But if Spike's sensing my hesitation at all, he doesn't show it. Just nods, purring a low sounding, "Mmhm." He smirks up at me, then pushes himself up and out of my lap, shifting to press his back into the bed beside me. "You know, customary and all that. I was thinkin' somewhere nice and boring." He leans toward me, fluttering kisses along my shoulder and up, brushing his lips airily over his faded claim mark. A jolt rockets down my spine, making my muscle clench and spasm spontaneously. "Somewhere up in that wine country people are always prattlin' on about. Napa, maybe." He nuzzles lazily into the crook of my neck, then trails his nose up until his lips are at my ear. "Nothin' to do but lounge about, get snockered and let me shag your brains out for a sodding week straight."

Oh, yeah. He'd definitely sensed my hesitation. This is text book Spike, especially when he feels even the slightest wave from me that he might not get what he wants. Pushing the heated little pulses of desire through the link between us, letting them chip away at my inhibitions until he beats them down. It's a neat little trick, and it's _entirely_ unfair.

But the worst part is, it normally works.

And even now, there's an embarrassing little catch in my voice when I pull my head out the reach of his lips and say, "Sounds relaxing."

"Oh, it would be," Spike agrees sincerely, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth and nibbling down on it. Lashes fluttering. "I'd do all the work, you wouldn't even have to lift a finger." He pauses thoughtfully, raises a scarred brow at me and adds, "Well, maybe a _finger_ , but-"

"And when would this oh so relaxing honeymoon be taking place, exactly?" I ask, cutting him off playfully. Both my eyebrows raised high as I shift just a little further away from him. "Before or after we rid Sunnydale once and for all of the tranq dart wielding military rejects."

Spike eye smiles at me, then sighs, slumps back against the edge of the bed and says, "After, I s'pose. Can't rightly shag your brains out if you're thinkin' about things other than said shagging, can I?"

I laugh at that, the laugh quickly turning into a wide yawn that I reach a hand up to stifle immediately. Spike chuckles again, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and tugging me against him. "Time for bed, luv."

"No," I mumble, shaking my head. Stifling another yawn. "Wedding night."

"They'll be plenty of time," he begins, sliding his arm out from around me again and pushing himself to his feet. He reaches a hand out toward me and I slip my hand into it, let him tug me effortlessly up to my feet. He turns me to face toward the bed, leaning around me to tug the covers back off the mattress. I smile sleepily as his arms come around my waist, his chin resting against my shoulder as he whispers, "To make love to my wife _after_."

Everything in me warms all over again at the words. The first time he's said them out loud.

 _My wife._

It's nice.

"After?" I ask, glancing over my shoulder at him.

"After you get some rest," Spike says, dropping a kiss to my shoulder. "Don't want you fallin' asleep on me." His arms squeeze me softly once more before he releases me, stepping back to give me room to pull the covers the rest of the way back.

Happy and exhausted, I crawl into bed, waiting to feel his weight settle behind me, his arm to wrap around my waist as he lays his head on the pillow and sighs. It's quiet for a moment even though neither of us is sleeping. I reach my right hand u and cover his left hand with it, the one that's resting over my stomach. I fiddle with the silver band, twisting it around on his finger absently.

And the thoughts that I've been avoiding since earlier, since the incident…or the almost incident with Riley, come filtering back. Fighting to make themselves known even as my brain is growing foggy with sleep.

"Do you think Riley will be able to help us?" I ask him on the heels of another yawn, letting my eyes fall shut.

It takes Spike a minute to respond. Like he's thinking really hard about what he wants to say before he says it.

Finally, he sighs and says, "Dunno, pet." Then, almost as an afterthought, "Hope so."

This surprises me. Both that he's admitted it, but also that he genuinely seems to mean it. I don't feel any hesitation coming from him, or any deception at all. Just simple, matter of fact hope.

Feeling my surprise, probably, he sighs again. "Don't get me wrong, I've got no love for your wanker of an ex, pet. _But_ I've about had it with these soldier sods havin' their run of Sunnyhell."

Oh.

I guess that much makes sense.

"What are we gonna do if he can't?" I ask, still fiddling with his ring.

Spike nuzzles into my hair, his unneeded breath fluttering some of the loose strands into my face as he says, "What we do best, sweet. Take matters into our own bloody hands and show those military prats what's what."

That makes me laugh. Not a loud, big laugh but a little breathy one, because I think I'm about a half second away from falling asleep. It's good in theory. Sounds completely doable right now in this hazy, almost dreamland state I'm in. From somewhere very far away it seems, my fingers start to tingle, blood buzzing just a tiny bit hotter at the thought of it. Of just…dealing with things.

 _Taking matters into our own hands._

But I'm already yawning again, not spending too much time thinking about that as I murmur, "You really wanna go on this honeymoon."

"Bit anxious to get on livin' the rest of my unlife with you, yeah."

And that makes me go warm and gooey, too.

"So it's a deal, then," I tell him dreamily, letting my hand slip away from his, arching my back more firmly into the curve of the spoon Spike's body is creating around mine. "If Riley comes up short, we take matters into our own hands. For Napa," another loud, half stifled yawn, "and the shagging."

I'm drifting off even before Spike can respond, his cool arm draped over my waist as I drift into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I wake up to the sound of screaming.

My name. I wake up to the screaming of my name. Sitting up in a rush, my head spinning as I blink into the hazy, early morning light filtering in through the crack in my bedroom window drapes. I hear my name again, and this time it registers that it's coming from outside the bedroom. From down the hall. Loud and shrill, like someone is in pain.

Like someone is in pain and they're screaming _my_ name.

Spike hears it too. He's up even before I am, stumbling out of the bed and lunging for where he'd left his jeans the night before, in a pile on the floor beside my night stand. And I'm right behind him. Throwing the rest of the covers, the tangled sheets, off my legs and tripping my way out of the bed, trying hard to fight through the haze of sleep still clouding my eyes as I do.

"Buffy!" My name again, and this time I'm awake enough to recognize that it's Dawn.

Spike and I share a quick, panicked look, probably saying more in that split second than any amount of words I might be able to form. I don't wait for him to finish zipping his jeans, only stopping long enough to adjust the strap of my tank top before I'm lunging for the bedroom door, yanking it open and tearing through the doorway and straight for the hall. Straight for Dawn's bedroom.

"Dawn," I cry out, reaching her cracked bedroom door and shoving it open. "What's wrong?"

But the room is empty. I scan it hurriedly, wondering if my sleep fogged brain just isn't seeing something. But I'm not seeing something because there's nothing there to see.

"In here," she cries back a second later, and I whip my head around, eyes going painfully wide as I spot her through the joint open door that leads from her room into Mom's.

My stomach drops out.

Immediately tensed, everything in me wanting to stick, to freeze inside Dawn's room so I don't have to go in there. So I don't have to see whatever it is I'm going to see, whatever it is that's making Dawn scream that way. My legs heavy, vision still blurry around the edges, I move for the open doorway. And I feel Spike there in an instant, right on my heels as I cross the threshold and into Mom's bedroom.

I turn my head to the left and see Dawn immediately. On the ground, on her knees, cradling our mother's head in her lap. Our mother, who's laying on the ground. Limp. Unmoving. Her eyes shut, jaw slack.

And I freeze.

I completely freeze. Can't move, can hardly even breathe in this second. My eyes still wide, stomach in twisting, panicked knots. Because I don't know what I'm seeing. My brain can't make sense of it. Dawn, still in her pajamas. Mom in her favorite long, blue robe.

Not moving. She isn't moving.

Oh, _God_ , why isn't she moving?

Dawn stares up at me, startled, eyes wide and wet. A deer in headlights, like she's startled to see me standing there. She just sitting there on her knees, Mom's head in her hands, running her hands repeatedly through her hair. Like pulling it away from her face is going to fix something. Like if she keeps doing, does it enough times, Mom will open her eyes. My eyes shift from Dawn's startled face to Mom's, one splotchy and red and the other impossibly pale. And Dawn is terrified. I can see it on her face. And I know there's something I need to be doing. That I need to go to her. To both of them. That I need to check and make sure Mom's still breathing. It looks like she is from here, but I don't know, can't be sure. And Dawn. I should be going to her. I know I should go to her, that I should be taking over for her.

But I can't move.

And my little sister is shaking her head, looking back and forth between me and the vampire standing stone still behind me.

"Something's wrong," she says tearfully, her voice strained, rising high in panic. Her eyes meet mine again. "Something's really wrong, Buffy."

And I don't know what it is. If it's the way she's looking at me, like it has to be me. Like I'm supposed to know what to do. Like I'm the only one who knows what to do. Or if it's just her saying my name, or the way she says my name. I don't know.

But suddenly, my legs unfreeze.

In a blind panic, I leap forward. Cross the space between us in two long strides, drop to my knees on the other side of Mom. I reach up and grab her by the shoulders on instinct, shaking her once.

"Mom," I say once, quietly, then rising in pitch. Like Dawn hasn't already tried this. I'm sure she has. But its instinct, and I find myself shaking her again. The wrong instinct, but instinct just the same. "Mom. Mom!"

Nothing. There's nothing. She doesn't open her eyes, doesn't move. Her body is dead weight where it rests in my sister's lap. Unmoving.

But she's breathing. She's breathing.

Oh, God. She's breathing.

 _She's alive._

For a moment, the panic flutters and ebbs a little, and I can't tell, am too distracted to recognize if it's because I've just realized Mom isn't laying here dead on her bedroom floor or if it's because of Spike. Or both, maybe.

Both.

I take my hands off Mom's shoulders, reaching my hand up to press the tips of my fingers into the side of Mom's neck, over where her pulse point is. And I can feel it now. Along with the rise and fall of her chest that I'd somehow missed, I can feel her heartbeat. Steady, but slow.

I whip my eyes up to Dawn, asking, "Did you find her like this?"

"No," she says, shaking her head violently, sniffling. "No. I was in here and she w-was fine. She was fine just a minute ago, and then…"

Her eyes fill with tears and she shakes her head again, words choking in her throat.

"How long ago?" I ask, reaching toward her, taking her hand in mine and squeezing it. "How long ago did this—"

"She said it was her head," Dawn interrupts me weakly, still threading her hands through Mom's hair. They're shaking slightly. "She said her head hurt, so I went to get her…"

Dawn's still talking, but I'm not listening anymore. I'm staring down at Mom, thinking about what Dawn's telling me. Her version of what had happened. Her head. Mom said her head hurt. She told Dawn her head hurt, and then she passed out. Unconscious on the floor of her bedroom. What could have made that happen? It couldn't have been just a headache. Just a headache wouldn't cause…this.

Another tumor?

"Buffy, what's _happening_?" Dawn demands, crying openly now, the panic in her voice bringing me back to the moment. Her voice too loud in the stillness of the bedroom, the sound of trees rustling and birds chirping in the early morning light outside the windows too loud, too.

I look at my sister, then back to Mom.

And I don't know what's wrong. Don't know medicine, or science. Or whether or not this could just be some really bad headache. It's only the fact that she'd mentioned her head to Dawn that lets me know this is something wrong. Really wrong, like Dawn had said. If one minute she'd been fine and the next…no, I don't know what's happening now, but I know it's nothing good. She needs help. Help I can't give her. She needs a doctor. She needs a hospital. But I don't have a car. I can't drive. Giles has a car. But Giles is over ten miles away. Over ten miles away, and if something's wrong with Mom's head ten minutes might take too long.

911.

I need to call 911.

I need to call 911 and I need to get Mom out of here. Downstairs.

Now.

"Spike," I call out, and he's there in an instant, before I'm even finished calling his name. And without me having to say anything, or ask, or tell him what I'm thinking, he moves around me and sweeps my mom up into his arms, tucking her limp body gently into his chest and turning to carry her from the room. I scramble to my feet and follow, shouting something unintelligible, something probably meant to be reassuring as I stumble down the stairs. I watch Spike lay Mom down on the sofa as I round the corner into the dining room, blindly feeling my way along the wall until I reach the cordless phone at Mom's desk. I grab for it, my own hands shaking a little now as I cradle it, look down at the numbers. Try to focus. But everything's blurry, whether from the burning in my eyes or from something else, I'm not sure. The numbers look funny. Too big one second and too small the next.

I look up, glancing around the darkened living room. Not remembering how I got back in here. Did I walk back in here?

I look back down at the phone again, squinting to try and focus again. 911. I can do that. I blink rapidly to clear my eyes, bringing my thumb up to ghost over the correct numbers.

9-1-1.

The beeps sound funny.

The operator picks up on the second ring, and I stumble through a haphazard explanation of what's happening. That I found my Mom unconscious on her bedroom floor. That she mentioned pain in her head. That yes, she's still breathing. I give her my address and the nice lady promises the ambulance is on its way.

I hang up the phone. Pause. Look up to see Spike kneeling on the ground beside the sofa, Dawn hovering next to him. He's saying something to her, but I can't hear what. Or I can, but it isn't registering.

I need to call Giles. I need to call Giles so he can come, bring his car. Drive us to the hospital.

But I can't remember his phone number.

"I…got the ambulance. They're…" I trail off, looking up at Spike just as he turns back to look at me. My eyes sting, burning hot. "But Giles…"

In a flash, he's at my side, reading my mind as he plucks the cordless phone out of my hands and dials, pressing the phone to his ear and gesturing with his other hand for me to go to the sofa. I nod and do, falling to my knees beside Mom, grabbing for her hand and cradling it between both of mine.

"You're gonna be fine," I promise her, nodding, squeezing her hand. Unsure if she can hear me or not. Not really caring either way. I turn to glance at Dawn, widening my eyes as I say, "Everything's _fine_."

Spike steps back into the living room, hovering in the doorway leading in from the foyer.

He still has the phone in one hand, gesturing demonstratively with it toward the front door. "Giles is on his way," he says steadily, like he's fighting incredibly hard to remain calm. His eyes flit from mine to Mom's face, then back to mine. I can feel him. How hard he's trying to stay calm for me. How hard he's trying to soothe away the tension in my nerves.

But I'm fighting him. Hard.

I don't even know why.

"Good." I nod my head numbly. "Good."

It takes the ambulance less than three minutes to get to us. Arriving in a flurry of too bright flashing lights, and a swirling, shrill sounding alarm. I scramble up off the floor and run for the door, opening it just as the two paramedics enter.

"She's in there," I say, pointing toward the living room, the sofa.

"Alright," one of them says, rushing past me and moving to crouch down beside her on the sofa. He presses the fingers of his right hand to the curve of her throat just like I had earlier, pulls out a small flashlight with the other. Reaching up to hold her eyelids open and flash it in her eyes as he asks me, "Can you tell me what happened?"

"She said her head hurt," I answer, feeling sluggish. Like everything's moving in slow motion as I step forward. Spike and Dawn beside me, Dawn still crying, the grip Spike has on his control tentative at best. Panicked, but trying so hard not to be. Frustrated, too, that I'm not letting him help me. "S-she said her head hurt, and then she passed out."

"Pupil's dilated, but responsive," the paramedic with the flashlight mutters to the other beside him, clicking the flashlight off, stuffing it back in his pocket. Then he glances over his shoulder to look at me. "How long has she been like this?"

"Uh," I look toward Dawn, who's just shaking her head. I grit my teeth, look back, shrug. "Five minutes?"

The paramedic nods in response but doesn't say anything. Just turns back to his counterpart and says something low under his breath. My eyes shoot back to Mom's face, and her eyes are closed again. Still so pale. Her body very still.

My stomach drops for the second time.

I shift my gaze toward Spike as the team of paramedics continue their course examination, watching as they flutter over her with various items, check her vitals. My vampire's eyes are focused unwaveringly on my mom. His brow furrowed, concentrating hard. And I know what he's doing without him having to tell me.

Human heart monitor.

I decide to study his face instead of watching the paramedic team, knowing he'll know before they do if Mom's heart suddenly stops beating. His expression doesn't change, though. Neither does the level of anxiety I've been feeling from him since we'd first woken up.

After what feels like a long moment, the paramedic I'd spoken to earlier calls to me.

"Is this your mother?" he asks me, and I nod in response, watch mutely as he turns back to help his partner lift Mom up, lay her down on top of the gurney they'd carried in with them initially. They wheel it toward me and I step out of the way to allow them room to pass. Numb, blinking slowly.

Everything feels heavy.

"Miss?" He leans around to catch my eyes. I blink at him, lashes fluttering. "Miss. Your mother needs to go the hospital right now, okay?"

I can only nod. Only nod and watch as they pass me, the gurney carrying my mother, an oxygen mask now over her mouth and her eyes still closed, still deathly still.

But there's still no change from Spike, so she's fine. She's still fine.

She's still alive.

And then suddenly I feel a hand at my back, pushing me forward. My vampire's voice beside my ear, directed to the paramedic.

"She's comin' with you," he says, pushing me a little further into the foyer. "She's her daughter, she needs to come with you."

The paramedic glances at him, then at me. Then nods.

I whip my head back toward Spike, frowning. Listening to the sounds of the gurney, rattling metal, as they wheel it outside and down the front porch steps. "What?"

I can't leave. I can't leave Dawn, leave him. I can't leave them here alone. Dawn needs me now. Mom is…unconscious. Lying unconscious in an ambulance and Dawn _needs_ me.

"We'll be fine," he promises me heatedly, brooking no argument. Stern, unwavering. All the frustration I'd been feeling from him early pouring out at me. His arm goes to wrap instinctively around my little sister's shoulders. She looks as numb as I feel. Her eyes glazed, no longer crying, but standing stone still. Focused on the gurney I'd been focused on a moment ago.

I shake my head, meet Spike's eyes again and whisper, "I _can't_ –"

"You have to," he counters, not giving me a chance to argue. "I'll wait with her 'til Giles arrives, then I'll take the tunnels and meet you at the hospital."

 _No._

That's not how this is supposed to work. I'm supposed to stay with Dawn. I'm supposed to be here. I have to do these things.

"Miss." The paramedic again. He's back inside the house, standing in the thin shaft of sunlight filtering in from outside. Splashing across the wood floor of the foyer, dappled and bright and all kinds of wrong right now.

"I can't leave—"

Spike pushes a wave of calm toward me, rippling down my back, across my bared skin as he says, "She'll be fine, luv."

"Miss," the paramedic says again, more sternly this time. An urgency in his voice that cuts through the haze surrounding me in a way that no other words could have. When I look at him, he widens his eyes at me. "If you're coming you need to come _now_."

 _Okay._

I think the word, but don't say it. Thinking it toward Spike even as I'm staring at the paramedic.

 _Okay._

I nod and follow him on another blind, sleep walking type instinct, stopping just long enough to shove my feet into an old pair of running shoes that I don't even think are mine. They've been sitting by the front door for ages, just sitting under the coat rack. I don't think they're mine.

I don't think it matters.

Because until the paramedic had looked at me and said those words. Said those words the way he'd said those words.

 _If you're going to come you need to come_ now.

Now. Urgent. Harsh. Like there's no other time. No time.

Until he'd looked at me and told me there was no time, it hadn't actually occurred to me that there might not be.

I crawl into the back of the ambulance, sliding onto the cold metal bench seat, feeling the chill through my ratty grey sweat pants. Feeling very small.

"C-can I touch her?" I ask him, not takin my eyes off my mom. Not looking at him as he works over her, flashes another light in her eyes, compulsively checks her pulse.

"Sure," is all he says, like he's distracted. Like he's only been half listening. Like he doesn't have time to answer my questions.

Like there isn't time.

I just nod, reach forward and take Mom's limp hand in mine.

It's still warm. It's still warm, and that's a good thing.

And that's all I let myself focus on for the whole two minute ride to the hospital.

A sentinel bleed.

A sentinel bleed in her brain. Something about an aneurysm.

Something…

There were several fancy medical terms for what had happened to Mom this morning. A complication from her surgery, apparently. Something about…her medications. The ones she'd been supposed to take to keep her blood from clotting post tumor removal. Blood thinners. They'd put her on blood thinners, which had caused there to be a sentinel bleed in her brain, around an aneurysm in her head.

She'd known there was a risk of this. At least, that's what the doctor tells me, looking at her chart. That Mom had known there was a risk of aneurysm, of a ruptured aneurysm, with the medicine she'd been taking. As a "postoperative complication" from her tumor removal surgery.

They'd had to perform emergency surgery today. Except it hadn't been surgery. Not really. They'd called it something else. They'd had to do…something to her brain. Clipping or coiling or...something with a "C" that I can't remember now. Try and get to the bleed and stop it before it could do any permanent damage.

They'd explained all this to me. Twice. Once, in a rush, the ER doctor stumbling over her words as she tried to give me the quickest run down possible as I'd stood there and watched them wheel my mother away from me and into surgery.

And once again, just now.

After the surgery.

No, no, not the surgery…it hadn't been a surgery. They'd called it a procedure. They'd explained it, and they'd called it a procedure. Not like the tumor. They hadn't cut into her brain this time.

I'm staring at the doctor now. My eyes hazily focused on her lips, unable to meet her eyes. I can feel Spike's eyes on me from where he's sitting in one of the waiting room chairs. Giles seated beside him on one side, Dawn on the other. The way the three of them had been since arriving nearly three hours ago.

I haven't been able to sit down.

Though I feel a little now like I might fall down.

The doctor reaches out, squeezes my shoulder gently. Repeats the words she's just said to me again, for the third time in the last minute.

I blink at her a few times. Long, slow. Still struggling to make sense of everything that's happened over the course of the last three hours. I swallow against the cottony texture of my mouth and say, "So, if we'd waited…"

"Another five minutes and it's possible you would have had a full rupture on your hands," she tells me again, nodding her head. "I don't know if she would have made it."

My stomach clenches, rolling. From somewhere to my left I can feel Spike trying his best to calm me down but I'm fighting him a little.

Another five minutes...

"But she's okay now," I press, shoving that thought away, trying to focus on the now. Needing her to say that, to tell me that. To say those exact words. "She's gonna be okay?"

The doctor smiles kindly at me, but the lines around her eyes are tight. Tired. "She's stable," she says again, choosing her words carefully. She's been choosing her words carefully since she'd first stepped into the waiting room. _Stable_. She keeps using that word, like it's supposed to mean something to me. It doesn't. "The next couple of days are critical, so we'll have to keep a close eye on her for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. But barring any further complications, yes." She nods. "She's going to be fine."

She's going to be fine.

I nod in return, letting the numbness slowly leech out of my shoulders. The adrenaline that had been fueling me up until now draining away, leaving me feeling extremely tired. My legs aching, shoulders tense.

Everything suddenly hurts.

The doctor tells me she'll send someone out to get us when Mom is out of recovery, and I nod again, thank her, my voice sounding all fuzzy and distant as I do.

Spike gets to his feet before I'm even halfway back to their chairs. His eyes narrowed, glued to my face. Trying to read my expression even though he doesn't have to. He already knows what I'm feeling.

Dawn is looking up at me through red, puffy eyes, and Giles has a tight, drawn expression on his face.

Spike might be able to read my every passing emotion, but they can't.

"Well?" he asks gently, prodding me for their benefit, not his.

I nod, tearing my gaze from his to look toward Dawn. "She made it through the surgery," I say softly, offering her a strained, tight smile. Trying for as reassuring as I can make it. Still reeling a little from what the doctor had told me. "They…fixed the…thing," I swallow hard, trying to remember the technical term, "the bleed, in her head." I sigh shakily, looking back to Spike. "And now she's in recovery, so—"

"So she's going to be okay?" my sister fills in for me, sniffling. Reaching up to rub at her eyes, and looking every inch as small as I feel when my eyes meet hers again.

God, I wish I could say yes. I wish I could say yes and mean it. Make that promise to her. Tell her of course, of _course_ , Mom's going to be okay. That we're all going to be okay.

But I can't.

Not yet.

"It's, uh…it's…" I trail off, tucking my hands into the front pocket sod my jeans. "They have to watch her really closely for the next twenty-four hours or so. But right now she's…stable."

Stable. It sounds even more clinical when I say it now than when the doctor said it earlier. Feels like it means even less, because it isn't what any of us want to hear. It isn't _good._ It isn't even okay. It isn't fine. Stable is just…stable.

It doesn't mean anything to us.

Still, Giles nods thoughtfully, looking relieved. "That's good," he says quietly, more to himself than to any of us. Then again, a little louder this time. "That's good news, Buffy."

It doesn't feel like good news. It doesn't feel like news at all. We're back where we were months ago. Standing, clustered around each other in the hospital. The waiting room.

Just waiting.

"I know," I manage lamely, forcing another tight smile. For Dawn's sake. "I know that, I just…" _Another five minutes…and I don't know if she would have made it._

Inexplicably, my stomach churns. A forceful, sudden wave of nausea that builds in my gut and rolls up, spreading into my chest, up to the back of my throat. I hole one finger up toward my family and mumble something along the lines of "One second."

I sprint for the waiting room's automatic door, running through first one set, then the other, then finally out into the open air. Sucking in a deep, ragged breath, the first it feels like I've taken in hours, my hands fly out to catch myself around one of the portico's pillars.

Then I lean forward and wretch violently into the grass.

I don't know how long I stand out there afterwards. Hands wrapped around the column, cheek pressed flush into the sun-warmed stucco. Longer than five minutes, but probably less than ten. When I finally push myself up, stand up straight and turn to walk back inside, Spike's standing just inside the innermost automatic doors, waiting for me. Eyes glued to my face, every muscle in his body tight. Coiled. Like he's expecting to have to leap forward and scoop my limp and exhausted body up off the ground any second.

Which, ya know, he might have to.

He follows just behind me, wordlessly, as I pass him and immediately turn the corner, moving away from the main seating area of the waiting room and over instead into a hidden alcove near the reception desk. I turn once we get there, press my back into the wall and tilt my head back. Close my eyes.

"You should sit down before you fall down, sweetheart," Spike scolds me softly, his voice honeyed, as real a caress over my skin as his hand would be.

And he's right. I should sit. I should sit and I should drink some water, and I should even try and get some sleep. Or maybe eat something, even though that thought has my stomach rolling again. Besides that, I'm not ready to go back and face Dawn yet. Not ready for her to ask me any more questions, want me to make her promises that I can't keep. Have no way to.

So I nod to show I've heard him but say, "I just need a minute."

I feel him sigh, the cool puff of air across my cheek as he leans in and drops a whisper of a kiss there, then turns, presses his back into the wall beside mine. He lets it be silent for a minute. I'm glad. There's no sound but the hum of the fluorescent lights and the trill of the phone ringing and the distant sounds of an intercom system paging doctors over and over again.

Finally, after what feels like a long time and not nearly long enough all at once, he asks me, "What else did the doctor say?"

I open my eyes at that, letting my head loll to the side until I meet his steady gaze. "What?"

"You're obviously keepin' something from them," he explains simply, tilting his head back in the direction we've come from, back toward Dawn and Giles. "Unless those knots twistin' up your insides and tossin' your cookies on the hospital lawn is your way of showin' how relieved you are." He turns toward me then, pushing his shoulder into the wall and leaning toward me so he can lower his voice, search my eyes with his. "If you don't wanna tell them, don't want to worry Dawn, that's fine. But tell me at least."

I open my mouth to argue with him. I realize that's what I'm doing as soon as the words form on my tongue. That I'm fine. That I don't need to tell him what else the doctor said. That I can handle it, do it, on my own. And I might have, if today had been any other day. If I hadn't just vowed not to do exactly that not even twelve hours ago.

Why is it so hard to let someone else shoulder some of the burden? Why is it so hard for me to understand that I don't have to do all this alone?

So instead of saying what I want to say, I sigh. I sigh, shift on the wall so my shoulder's pressing into it too and say, "She said another few minutes and Mom might not have made it. Spike, if we'd...it would have been too late. They barely had time to fix it as it was." I shake my head, sniffling. Not crying yet but feeling like I could be close to it. "We were almost too late. If Dawn hadn't been with her…if we'd spent the night somewhere else…"

Spike shushes me. Reaches out and puts a cold finger against my lips, shaking his head. "But _she_ was. And _we_ didn't." He pulls his finger away. "We weren't too late, luv."

There's freedom in the words, in the realization they bring with them. I've been so focused on what might have happened. What could have happened if Dawn hadn't been in Mom's room this morning. What could have happened if Spike and I had gone and stayed at his crypt, like we'd briefly discussed. What could have happened if we hadn't called the ambulance when we did.

I've been so preoccupied with could haves, that I haven't actually had time to think about what actually happened.

"We weren't too late," I repeat softly, the hint of the first real smile in hours quirking the corner of my lips. Because for all the what ifs and the could haves, we'd gotten her here. They'd done the procedure.

 _She's going to be fine._

Feeling my relief as palpably as I do, Spike flashes me a smile. Reaching out instinctively to lace his fingers with mine, he asks, "They say when you could see her?"

I nod, letting my fingers weave through his larger, cooler ones. Shifting my eyes down to study the way his hand fits around mine. "They said they'd come get us when she was leaving recovery."

"Right, so you have a little time then. Come in and sit, yeah? Try and relax."

I shake my head immediately at that, pulling my hand out of his and pushing myself off the wall. "There's a lot of paperwork and stuff that I haven't had a chance to get to," I tell him, reaching a hand up and running it through my hair. "Patient forms the nurse gave me, and-"

"Buffy." It's a warning.

"I can't relax until I know she's really going to be okay," I tell him on a sigh, wishing he'd stop looking at me the way he was now. It's so hard to say no to him when he's looking at me the way he is now. And paperwork...there _is_ actual paperwork that needs to be done before Mom gets out of recovery.

Still sensing my hesitation, but not taking no for an answer, Spike loops his arm around my shoulder and tugs me against him. Begins maneuvering me expertly back out of the alcove, around the corner. Toward the chairs where Dawn and Giles are still seated, talking quietly to each other. Spike's arm tightens slightly around me when we get a little closer, and his voice is low in my ear when he says, "Just try."

I can do that much. I can try.

I inhale through my nose, letting it out low and slow through my mouth. Then I turn toward him, choosing my words carefully as I say, "I'll try."

At some point I must fall asleep. Somewhere between the gentle rhythm of his fingers playing through my hair and the low, reverberating rumbles emanating up from Spike's chest, I must fall asleep. Because when I hear my name, I nearly jump out of my skin, blinking bleary eyes up at the pretty looking nurse who's standing in front of me.

"Buffy Summers?" she asks again, smiling warmly. Looking like she might want to laugh a little.

"Yes," I say, sitting up quickly, reaching a hand up to wipe away the small trail of drool I feel on the edge of my chin. Not quite present minded enough to be embarrassed. "Hi. That's me."

"Your mom is in the ICU now," the nurse explains, speaking very quietly. I realize there are still other people sleeping in the chairs around us, my little sister being one of them. "I can take you back to see her, if you'd like."

I nod quickly, straightening my shoulders. Stretching my back out as I turn toward Dawn, put my hand on her shoulder and gently shake her. "Dawnie." She makes a soft little noise of complaint but doesn't move, so I shake her a little more firmly this time. "Dawnie, wake up." I wait for her eyes to open, hazy looking blue finding mine, blinking several times. I smile at her, and it doesn't feel as forced this time either. "Mom's in the ICU," I tell her. "We can go see her now."

Dawn blinks again, sits up straight. She looks around the waiting room, finally noticing the nurse standing in front of us. Reaching her hands up, stretching her arms above her head, she asks, "Is she awake?"

The nurse smiles at her, but shakes her head. "She's sleeping now, pretty out of it after the procedure. That's pretty normal." Her eyes shift back to mine, and they hold the hint of a question. "But I figured you wouldn't want to wait."

"No," I say quickly, struggling a little with my own grogginess as I push myself up to my feet. "We definitely don't want to wait. You coming?"

I've directed the question down to Spike, who nods immediately and stands up beside me, and the three of us start to walk forward. But I'm surprised when the nurse suddenly stops us, putting her hand out.

"I'm sorry," she says, looking at me, then back to Spike. "Your boyfriend will have to stay out here while you two come with me. I can't have—"

"He's my husband," I tell her automatically, on impulse. The first time I've actually said the words out loud. To someone else. Someone other than each other. The lightness it brings to my head is unexpected, but the sudden rush of warmth is not. I can feel Spike's eyes on me, can feel the smirking curve of his lips, but I don't look at him. My eyes are still on the nurse.

I clear my throat, feeling awkward for my little outburst. "I mean, we don't…we just got married last night so I can't prove it or anything," I explain further, knowing that I'm totally being ramble girl but unable to stop it as I gesture absently with my hands. "But he's not my boyfriend, he's my husband."

This has her smiling at me again, like she understands what I'm saying now. She nods and says, "I was just going to say I can't have more than two of you come back to see your mom at one time. ICU policy."

That has me frowning. Feeling more than a little silly for my outburst from a moment ago, I blink at her a few times before saying dumbly, "Oh."

"But congratulations," she adds hurriedly, and I get the feeling she's trying to make me feel less like a total dork, gesturing between the two of us with her hand. And I watch as her smile falters and falls a little, like she's just realized something for the first time. "I'm sorry you two have to start your honeymoon here."

That's the second mention of a honeymoon in the last twelve hours, and just like before, it makes my cheeks flush. Heat spreading through my face even as Spike leans around me, presses his lips to my temple and says, "You two go. Have a few things I'd like to discuss with Rupert, anyhow."

The wiggiest part of that sentence? He actually means it. I can see it on his face when I turn to look at him, in his eyes. There actually is something he needs to talk to Giles about. Which, okay, kind of weird. But I figure Spike's just trying to be gracious in front of the nurse and ER staff, so instead of arguing with him I just nod and say okay.

Dawn and I follow the nurse, stopping to check ourselves in at the reception desk before continuing on. This is a different part of the hospital than I've been to before, and as much as things are the same, they're very different, too. I halfway wonder if I'm even going to know when we reach the ICU. But then we do, and I don't have to wonder because it's incredible obvious. Where the hallway had been dimly lit before, this one is almost blindingly white, the lights are so bright. And there's noise everywhere. Constant noise. Buzzing and beeping and a whir of an alarm sounding somewhere a little ways away. The air here is thick, too. Pungent and heavy with a mix of lemony cleaning solution, metallic blood and something else, something worse, that I don't really even want to think about.

We follow the nurse a little ways down the brightly lit hallway until we're about halfway down, then we stop. She reaches forward and pulls back a curtain, revealing a tiny, not very private room, walled in on three sides with a typical looking hospital bed at the center.

And Mom lying on top of it.

Again, in so many ways, this is the same as the last time we'd been here…but this is also very different than before. In her original room, she'd never had this many wires. This many tubes and wires and… _things_ connected to her. Four wires connected to her heart, two or three that look like they're connected to her arms, one I recognize as being used for oxygen that's placed inside her nose. One glowing red clip looking thingy on her finger. Each one is tethered to an IV or a beeping machine of some kind. And in the midst of it all, Mom's lying there, perfectly still. Her hospital bed is completely flat, not slightly angled like her others had been, and she doesn't even have any pillows. Her eyes are closed. Sleeping, I realize. Groggy from the procedure just like the nurse had said she'd be.

But she looks so small, and so pale. So delicate and small and _fragile_.

Beside me, Dawn swallows. Opens her mouth, closes it again. Then, "She looks..."

"She's just sleeping, Dawnie," I tell her softly, reaching down to link my hand with hers, daring to inch a little closer to the bed. I want to reach out and touch her. Want to reach out and take her hand the same way I had in the ambulance, but all the tubes and the wire and the beeping keep me from trying. Instead, I say, "The doctors wouldn't let us come back here if she wasn't strong enough for visitors. They would have waited to get us."

"I never wanted to be back here," she whispers, her hand tightening the slightest bit around mine when he does.

She doesn't mean the ICU. She means the hospital in general.

And I don't blame her. Not one, little, tiny bit.

"Me neither," I admit, eyes starting to sting a little as they trail over Mom. Watching the steady rise and fall of her chest, the only thing keeping me sure that she's just sleeping. Well that, and the constant beeping reminder from the monitor beside the bed.

"I thought it was just a headache," Dawn says suddenly, turning to look at me. Her hand is still in wrapped mine, her eyes misting over, lashes damp. "She told me her head hurt and I thought…I went to get her medicine. I just thought…" she trails off, the words sticking awkwardly in her throat and I find myself reaching for her impulsively. Pulling her into my arms for a tight hug, my hands threading down the length of her hair. Wanting to protect her from doing what I'd done earlier, from blaming herself, from fighting through the too many what ifs and could haves. Like if I hug her tight enough she won't be able to do that. Won't be able to run through it all again and again.

"Shh," I murmur into her hair, shaking my head against hers as I feel the first of her tears soak into my shirt. "No. No don't do that, okay? She's…" I catch myself mid-promise and say instead, "everything's _fine_."

My sister shakes her head and sniffles, pulling back from me to look into my face. "You would have done something different," she whimpers, chin wobbling as her eyes flood again. "You would have been faster…you—"

 _No._

No, I wouldn't have been. I would have frozen, just like I had in that bathroom doorway.

I'd barely been fast enough as it was.

"You saved her life today, Dawnie," I tell her forcefully, purposefully. Fixing her eyes with mine, raising my eyebrows. Needing her to understand that this was so far from being her fault. "By being there, by yelling for me, you saved her life today. We got her here in time."

Dawn doesn't say anything else. Doesn't burst into tears again, either. Instead, she nods, a tremulous breath escaping as she goes to hug me again. And I wrap my arms tighter around her, looking over the top of her head at the hospital bed, at Mom.

And we stay here like this for a little while. Arms around each other In the ICU, the only sounds the whirring and the beeping and the distant sounding alarm. We stay here like this, just the three of us.

Eventually, the nurse had had to kick us out.

There'd been tests she needed to run, and felt it better if we left and got out. Maybe got some food and came back later. I'd been surprised once we'd left the ICU and made our way back toward the waiting room to see that the clock read only a half past 1:00. It feels to me like days have passed since waking up to Dawn screaming my name, not mere hours.

Spike's waiting for us when we enter the waiting room again, but I notice after a quick, cursory glance that Giles is gone.

Frowning, I cross the seating area, Dawn close behind me and come to a step in front of the now empty chair. "Where's Giles?"

"Ducked out to make a phone call," Spike answers, not moving from his position in the chair. Eyes scanning my face again, trying to read me. Knowing he doesn't need to, it's almost more unnerving now than when he used to do it before the connection. "How's Joyce?"

I sigh, folding my arms over my chest. "The nurse said she'd be groggy, in and out every couple hours so they can do some neuro tests and ask her questions. And she looks…" I trail off, widening my eyes meaningfully and casting a sidelong glance at Dawn before saying, "but she's okay."

Spike is about to say something, but then Giles comes around the corner. He's carrying his jacket in one hand, his free hand pressed against his forehead, eyes down on the ground. Immediately, I feel a swell of panic come from Spike.

He jumps on my Watcher as soon as he's in earshot, asking, "Well?"

Giles glances at him, nods once. "It's been handled." Then his eyes shoot to mine. "How's your mother doing?"

Forgetting about the panic from my vampire, panic that's already beginning to fade into something else, something more subtle, I sigh, leaning back in the stiff waiting room chair. "She's going to be fine, I think. The nurse kept saying she was in stable condition, so I'm taking that as she's going to be fine."

"That's wonderful news," Giles says warmly, and he smiles. A real smile, but a strained one. Which feels weird. Like he's already thinking about something else he needs to be doing. Then, immediately, he turns to look at my little sister. "Well I was just thinking I'd head for the cafeteria and get something to eat. Dawn, are you hungry?"

She looks up at him, then glances toward me. We share a look, then she turns back to my Watcher and shakes her head. "Not really."

"You should eat something now," I tell her gently, reaching my hand out to run it through the thick strands of her hair. "That way when Mom wakes up you won't have to leave to eat then."

Dawn frowns at me, but then the rumbling in her stomach must win out because a second later she sighs and nods. Giles turns to me then, asks if there's anything he can get for me.

 _Ugh._

I shake my head no, telling him the thought of food sounds about as appealing as the thought of…well, throwing up again. My Watcher reaches down, squeezes my shoulder reassuringly, then leads Dawn off in the direction of the cafeteria.

It's silent for a minute between us, my vampire and I, and instead of feeling compelled to break it I sit there and soak it in. Close my eyes, exhale slowly, and lean my head back against the wall.

A beat passes.

Then, "You feeling better, then?"

I let my eyes flutter open again, let my head loll to the side to meet his eyes. Sigh, nod. "I am, yeah. A little." He already knows this, so I don't know why I feel the need to explain it all. Maybe I think it'll make me feel better. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, glance away from him. "Seeing her like that is...hard. But I'd rather be seeing her like that than the alternative. So, yeah, better." I'm rambling again, but that's okay. "I'd say I feel better."

"Good," he says quickly, and I can tell by the way he says it that he'd already known. That he'd just been making sure. He's fidgeting a little, nails drumming against his knee as it bounces. "'Cause I have somethin' to show you."

This has my attention shooting back to him. Frowning, brow furrowed, I watch as he digs down into his duster's pocket, pulling out what looks like a thick scrap of olive green fabric. "I found this in the tunnels on my way in here this morning." He places the scrap in his palm, down flat, and holds it out to me. "Didn't think much of it at first, but thought it was a touch odd, so I scooped it up just the same."

I frown. Look at the scrap, then up to his face. "What am I looking at?"

"That," he says poignantly, gesturing for me to take it from his hand. I pick it up, fingering it, bringing it up closer to my face so I can see it better. Now that I see it up close, it does look a little familiar. "Is a scrap of the green material that the uniforms our soldier boys used to wear 'round town were made out of."

Oh, whoa. I brush my thumb over the scrap of material again, fully recognizing it now.

Okay. So that's…a little weird.

"And that little dark spot just there?" Spike continues, a surge of excitement flowing through the connection as he leans closer to me, pointing at a teeny tiny red fleck near the top of it as he adds, "Is blood. Or, blood-like."

"Blood- _like_?" I ask skeptically, raising an eyebrow at him.

Seems to me like something is either blood or it isn't, not…something in between.

But Spike only nods. "Not _just_ blood," he clarifies, eyes sparkling as they gaze back at me. He's still fidgeting beside me. Antsy, something making him restless. "'S a mixture of some kind."

And again, sure. That's also kind of weird.

 _But…_ "What's so special about a scrap of an ugly military grade sweater with an itsy bitsy, teeny weeny speck of…something-like-blood on it?" I ask him, tearing my eyes away from the material and turning toward my vampire. His eyes are riveted to my face, bright. Excitement growing stronger as he stares at me. I shake my head, asking, "How do you know this scrap hasn't been down in the tunnels for a year?"

Spike smirks at me, raising an eyebrow. "Because that teeny weeny speck of something-like-blood is _fresh_. Maybe a day," he pauses, doing the math in his head and shrugs, "day and a half old, tops."

 _Oh._

I open my eyes a little wider, looking back down at the scrap of uniform in my hand. Okay, so Initiative uniform with _fresh_ blood-like substance on it is definitely something that lands squarely in the majorly weird column.

"And the real kicker?" Spike says, plucking the material out of my hand, waving it toward me with wide eyes. "It's _yours_."

Whoa.

Whoa, _wait_.

"The blood or the sweater?" I ask, suddenly feeling light headed, needing clarification even though I already have an idea anyway.

Spike's eyes instantly shoot to the ceiling, and he shakes his head. "The _blood_ , pet." His eyes drop to mine again, and he leans closer to me, stuffs the uniform scrap back into his pocket and says, "So unless you were traipsin' around the tunnels in this neck of the woods sometime in last day and a half wearin' one of Captain Carboard's old uniforms…"

"Something majorly wiggy is going on down there," I supply for him instantly, my eyes turned to the ground. I blink a few times, shake my head. Then I cast a sidelong glance toward Spike again and ask, "Where did you find this?"

"Where the main sewer tunnel splits off into a bunch of smaller ones, couple of 'em runnin' toward the beach. Just below the main hospital building."

I nod, considering that. Biting down on the inside of my cheek. Then, "Did you see anything else Initiative-y down there?"

My vampire shakes his head, looking suddenly apologetic. "Didn't really stop to give it much thought, luv," he says softly, casting a glance over his shoulder. Like he's afraid someone might be listening into our conversation, then back to me. "Would've done a bit more pokin' around but I was in a bit of a hurry."

"What about now?" I ask, thinking about what this could mean. What else we might be able to find if we poke around down there. And the prospect that we might be able to find something…find the Initiative. Stop them. Be done with all the hiding and the house arrest and the not patrolling. And my nerves are frayed as it is, on edge. Fingers instantly itching at the prospect of a fight. I look up at him again, pulling my bottom lip into my mouth. "We're not in a hurry now. Dawn's with Giles, and Mom's stable and sleeping."

Reading my mind, he shifts back in his chair, brow raised and asks, "Up for a little recon?"

I don't need to be asked twice.

I push myself to my feet. "Let's go."


	47. Chapter 46

Getting down into the tunnels below the hospital means sneaking out behind the building, dodging various patches of sunlight and dropping down into the still open manhole Spike had crawled up from earlier in the day. And these tunnels feel differently from the ones near the Magic Box. Sure, I know logically they're the same. They're all part of the same intricate underground system. But these feel…darker. Even with the bright, fluorescent lights that run along the tops, breaking up the darkness every ten feet or so, these tunnels feel _heavy_. The massive stone walls curving up on either side of us, our footsteps echoing hollowly as we inch our way down, re-tracing Spike's steps. At one point, a rat squeals and I realize a second too late I've just stepped on its tale. I jump back, watching as it skitters across the damp stone floor, splashing from one puddle to another. I glance at Spike, wrinkling my nose up.

"It is _so_ creepy down here," I tell the vampire, starting to walk again, paying a little more attention to where I'm going this time.

Beside me, he makes a short, half-laughing sound and nods. "Yeah, well…all the more reason we should check it out, then." He casts a sidelong glance at me, lips quirking. "We Big Bad's like our lairs with a healthy dose of creep."

"Mmmhm," I murmur, my own lips twitching up slightly as I fall into closer step beside him, keeping my eyes trained to the ground on the off chance I might spot another clue. Or another rat.

We walk along in silence for another few minutes, the tunnel gradually getting smaller as we walk. Eventually, I let Spike step in front of me to lead the way. Down the stretch of straight tunnel, then abruptly to the left, into another cavernous opening and down another equally long stretch of tunnel. I have no idea how Spike manages to maneuver his way around down here. We haven't even gone that far from where we'd originally entered the sewers and I'm already big with the majorly turned around.

"That about your mum?" he asks me after a minute, coming to a stop just before another wide tunnel opening, this one to our right this time.

I know what he's talking about without him having to tell me. Anxious, twisting knots have begun to rise up in my stomach again. The further we've walked, the further away from the hospital, from Dawn and Giles and Mom, and the closer we get to…well, whatever it is we're getting closer to…the worse they've become. And even though I'm pretty certain they aren't actually about Mom, that I'm pretty sure I know _exactly_ what they're about, I don't tell him that. Partially because I'm not ready to tell him yet, and partially because I'm not sure I really want to acknowledge where the anxiety is coming from.

My fingers are tingling.

There's a sudden, swift swell of irritation from my vampire as he realizes there's something I'm obviously keeping from him, but he doesn't push me. Instead, he falls back in step beside me, turning to lead us down another corner, down another stretch of tunnel.

This one is much darker than the last couple.

I squint ahead into the darkness. In about twenty feet, the fluorescent lights will go out altogether, leaving us walking blind in near pitch blackness. Well, pitch blackness for me at least. I hear the tell-tale shifting of cartilage and bone, and glance to my left. Next to me, Spike's already shifted into game face. Gold eyes gleaming, peering steadily out into the incoming dark.

And he's mad at me, which is just great. Or maybe not _mad_ , but frustrated. Maybe I should have just told him…but how am I supposed to tell him what's bothering me exactly when I'm not even one hundred percent sure myself?

I clear my throat.

"So should we talk about what we're gonna do if we find…whatever it is we're looking for." I pause thoughtfully, turn to glance at him, watching the last flicker of light pass over the angle of his cheekbone as we step into the blackness. In an attempt to lighten the sudden weight between us, I ask lightly, "What are we looking for?"

"Clues, mostly," Spike says simply, voice flat. Not looking at me. "Just wanna know if there's a reason I found a scrap of commando uniform with bits of your blood on it. Seems a bit more than coincidence, if you ask me."

I glance toward him as we continue to walk. I'm surprised by just how well I can still make out his features, the ridges over his brow, the ticking in his jaw, even now in the dark. I wonder if that could be another feature of the connection. Something else we share now. Super eyesight. Or maybe I just have it when he's in game face.

I make a mental note to bring it up later and for now, I simply nod.

"No, you're definitely right about that," I tell him, pursing my lips, facing forward again. My eyes scan the walls of the tunnels, the floor, the way too deep looking puddle of stinking, dirty water we're coming up on now. "Coincidences aren't exactly big in Buffy world."

"And that'd be a pretty big one," Spike agrees, coming to an abrupt stop just at the edge of the puddle and gesturing over into the corner, on the left hand side of the tunnel. "I found it right over there."

I follow the direction of his hand, scanning the area. At first glance, I don't see anything else that looks suspicious or clue-like, but I know I'll have to get closer to make sure. Crossing in front of Spike, I step around the puddle, leaping over to the dry space of stone floor that leads into the wall of the tunnel.

Crouching down, bracing my arms over my thighs, I ask, "Why would Initiative soldiers be using the tunnels?" I glance back at him over my shoulder, half asking and half just needing to talk it out aloud. "Aren't they sort of…the hunters, not the huntees?"

We've been using the tunnels as a means to get from place to place and stay undetected by them. Seems kind of silly now if they'd been down here using the same tunnel system to get around the city this whole time, too.

Spike looks at me, softening slightly as he nods, looking like he thought the same thing. "True. But if they're operatin' here in secret, s'pose it'd make sense for them to want to stay underground." His lips twitch into a smirk and he adds, "Literally."

The tension easing a little between us, I smile at him and shake my head, turning back to the patch of stone in front of me. I lean forward, put my hands on the ground and begin feeling around, trying to see if there might be anything here. Maybe another scrap of fabric, or more of the freaky Buffy blood mixture Spike had found before.

"You told Giles about this before you told me, right?" I ask, glancing toward him as he moves around me, stepping over the puddle and coming to the other side, crouching down in front of me. I look up to meet his eyes. "When Dawn and I went back to see Mom, you told Giles about what you'd found."

In response Spike sighs, tilting his head to the side. "I didn't want to tell you until you'd gotten to see Joyce, luv. Didn't want you worryin' or gettin' distracted." He turns his eyes up to mine again. "You were distracted enough as it was."

He's right. He's right, and he _knows_ he's right, so there doesn't seem to be much point in arguing about it now. Still, I can't help the slight frustration pulsing through my own skin, flushing across my cheeks as I think about that. I mean, what exactly had Spike thought Giles could do that I couldn't? Since when has being distracted or worried ever kept me from going out and doing what had to be done? Dimly, I understand that they'd probably just been trying to give me space, to handle what they could handle without dragging me into it. And Spike _had_ told me. It isn't like he'd purposefully kept it from me. As soon as he'd felt sure I was alright, he'd told me.

And even more dimly, I understand that I'm more jealous than I am frustrated. Not that I'm not, ya know, totally thrilled about the fact that my vampire and my Watcher seem to be getting along so much better now than before, but…it wigs. A little bit, it wigs.

"Still," I insist, my voice a little harder than I mean it to be as I keep my eyes on Spike's. My hands still sweeping absently along the stone floor. "It would've been nice to be kept in the loo—ow!"

I snatch my hand back away from the edge of the puddle, where it had been wandering in search of fabric scraps, holding the throbbing tip of my finger up in front of my eyes for inspection. Through the darkness, I can see it. A tiny drop of blood beading up along the fleshy pad where I've just pricked myself on…what have I just pricked myself on? My eyes snap back down to the space my right hand had just been, my left hand dropping to feel around carefully for the source of the throbbing twinge in my index finger now.

"Bloody hell," Spike growls, voice strained. I can't tell if it's because my sudden outburst had surprised him, or if it's in response to the still stinging pain radiating through my finger. And probably his, too. "What is it?"

My fingers close around something a moment later. Cool and smooth, like plastic. And wet from the pool of water it's halfway submerged in. I pull little cylindrical object out of the water and lift it up between the two of us, turning it back and forth in my hand. My eyes zero in on the needle immediately.

"Like a doctor's syringe or something," I say, almost missing Spike's sudden shift toward rushing, instant panic completely as I turn it over once more in my hand, eyeing the tiny bit of red liquid still inside of it before absently tossing it aside, the plastic-y clatter it makes against the stone muffled a little by the puddle. "Probably medical waste that got tossed out or—" I'm cut off as Spike reaches a hand out and snatches it off the ground again, lighting fast, bringing it up very close to his face. I frown, ask, "What are you doing?"

"What's it look like I'm doin'?" he asks back, glowing gold flickering over my face for a moment before returning to study the object in his hand. "You just stabbed yourself with a used needle, luv, I'm gonna find out what the hell was in this."

Oh.

I hadn't thought about it like that.

Suddenly, his panic isn't the only panic flowing between us, the twisted knots that have never really gone away making their presence known all over again as I watch him press into the syringe, the tiny bit of the liquid left over in the bottom of the cylinder shooting up and out of the needle tip, landing on the back of his pale hand in a little spatter. He leans down to sniff at it, inhaling deeply. Then he freezes, every muscle in his body stiffening. Like a wild animal sensing something very, very wrong.

"Spike," I say, watching as he suddenly begins moving again. Stands up straight, digs around in his pocket, coming away with the scrap of material he'd showed me earlier. He brings it up to his nose, too. Rapidly switching back and forth between the spatter on his hand and the small red stain on the uniform scrap. He frowns, the panic flowing between us growing stronger by the second.

"Spike, what the hell is going on?" I ask, standing up again, too.

"It's the same," he says finally, shaking his hand out to rid it of the liquid spattered on top of it. "Whatever was in this," he waves the syringe in front of me, "it's the same thing as the stuff on the uniform."

I take a minute to consider that.

Blinking at my vampire, brow furrowed, I attempt to work through that in my head. Think about what he'd told me earlier. "But you said…the stuff on the uniform was my blood."

Spike shakes his head, still frozen in place. "Said it was _partially_ your blood." He tears his gleaming eyes from mine, focuses down on the cylinder in his hand. "This…it's been mixed with somethin' else."

 _It's been mixed with something else_.

It takes longer than it should to sink in.

It's the same. The speck of red on the uniform and the red liquid in the syringe. It's the same. The speck of red on the uniform that Spike had picked up because it had smelled like me. And it had smelled like me because it had my blood in it.

It takes too long to sink in. Mostly, because it doesn't make any _sense._ That we've just stumbled across a plastic disposable syringe that had had my blood in it. It doesn't make sense. Not that my blood showing up on a torn piece of fabric down in a system of tunnels I've never set foot in before today had made sense, either, but this…a syringe that had been full of a mixture that had included my _blood_?

How had they even gotten my blood in the first place?

I voice the question out loud, and Spike shakes his head. Looking about as confused, feeling as confused, as I do.

"No bloody clue," he says, his eyes finding mine.

It's not like I've been out and about, bleeding all over the place. It's not like I've been out and about, period. I've been inside for _weeks_. I've been holed up inside ever since…

"That night in the cemetery," I whisper out loud. Half realization, half question. My eyes are dazed, focused down on the ground in front of me. The spot in front of my feet where we've just found the blood mixture. I don't remember hardly anything about that night, other than the stinging pain from the dart in my shoulder. It isn't like I'd been especially present or anything, not after the tranq had started to take effect. I blink a few times, find Spike's eyes with mine. "Did I bleed?"

He frowns at me, shaking his head like he's not understanding. "Well, yeah, but not enough to…" He trails off, and I watch as realization steals over his demon's features, his eyes going impossibly wide. Instantly, a rush of wild, anger tinged guilt rushes over me as he growls, throwing the plastic syringe hard into the far wall of the tunnel. Then he turns back to me. "The _dart_ , luv. I pulled it out and just left it there." Spike growls again, another wave of blame fanning its way down into my gut and stirring the anxious knots into a frenzy. He rakes his hands back through his hair and mumbles, "The fuckin' thing had your blood all over it."

But even then.

Even then, would that have been enough to create the mixture Spike had found?

I glance down toward the empty syringe on the ground, wondering if that's the only one like it, or if there had been more. If there _are_ more. And if so, how many more might there be?

My mind is reeling, a thousand different thoughts spinning in every which way, all different directions. A million miles a minute. And in the midst of the chaos, all I keep coming back to is the fact that I'd been _right_.

I'd been right from the beginning, that they _had_ been trying to shoot me. They hadn't missed Spike. They'd been aiming for me. Because they needed me…my blood. Why would they have needed _my_ blood? Had that been all they'd been looking for when they'd come back here, or had their plans changed when Spike had managed to get me safely out of the cemetery? That night, when they'd shot me…they'd use a tranq dart. So I know they hadn't been trying to kill me. They'd been trying to…what? Kidnap me? Run experiments on me?

Or had they only been after my blood this whole time?

That makes about as much sense as anything else has in the past ten minutes. So, a little less than zero. If that's all they'd wanted, there had to have been easier ways to try and get it…right? And if that's all that they'd wanted, then why were they still here?

"I don't know, " Spike says suddenly, bringing my eyes whipping back toward his. I frown, shaking my head. Confused.

Had I been talking out loud that whole time?

I don't get a chance to ask, because a second later, Spike's lunging toward me. Wordlessly, without warning, gripping me tightly by the wrist and yanking me toward him, rushing us further into the darkness, along the left side of the tunnel. Then he spins me around, pressing my back up against the wall and placing his body flush against mine, using the edge of his duster as a sort of cover, deepening the blackness around us. I open my mouth to ask him what he's doing, and he covers my lips with his hand. His face is turned away from mine, demon's gaze laser focused back in the direction we've just run from.

And not a half second later, I hear it. What he must have heard a moment ago.

Footsteps.

Footsteps, and low, rumbling voices.

Then, a flashlight beam. About twenty yards away from us, coming from the opening in the tunnel where they split off, from the opposite direction of the hospital. Another second later, the footsteps and the voices grow louder, until finally I can see the heavy boots of two men step out and into the open space of the tunnel. I can't see their faces, can't see much of anything with the way Spike is shielding me, but I _can_ see the outlines of the guns they're carrying. I can definitely hear them now, too.

Loud and clear.

Spike pulls his hand away from my lips, and we both settle in against the wall, cloaked in darkness, to listen to the conversation that's obviously been going on for a while before now.

"…do you remember where?" The first one finishes asking as they step into our tunnel, flashlights focused directly in front of them, and I strain my ears to hear better. To see if I can recognize the voice. I don't, but that doesn't mean anything.

I wish I could see around Spike's shoulder.

"Not exactly," the second responds flatly. All I can see are their outlines in the darkness as they scuffle around in the area Spike and I had been just moments ago.

"Well you better figure it out, and fast," the first one hisses, and I can hear something that sounds an awful lot like panic in his voice. They both sound very young to me. "He'll kill you if someone else finds it first."

"You don't think I know that?" The second asks in a harsh whisper, the sound somehow still managing to echo up around the cold tunnel walls. A beat passes, and he continues, "I still don't see what the big deal is, anyway. It's not like it even _worked_."

"That _is_ the big deal, you idiot. It didn't work. Which means we're stuck here until it _does_ work, so any evidence we leave lying around is a problem."

Spike tenses at the same time as I do.

Evidence. Are they talking about the syringe we'd found?

One of the flashlight beams has swept out and up, pointing toward us. It stretches up the length of the tunnel and into the darkness we're hiding in. It doesn't stretch quite far enough, though, coming to a stop about five feet from us. Then moves away again, back to the far wall of the tunnel.

We both hold impossibly still, listening intently to the second soldier as he responds to the first, his flashlight absorbed in the area by the pool of water. "Well it's not like one little needle's gonna give the whole damn thing away—"

My wide eyes find Spike's, my unspoken question answered.

The first shoulder hisses loudly, "Will you just shut up and look?"

"Fine," the second grumbles. There's more scuffling, a few low swear words. A few more passing swipes of the flashlight beams. Then, finally, "Here. I found it, here."

There's a sigh of relief from one of them, though I can't tell which. But the next one to speak is the first soldier again, so I'm guessing it had been him. "Good," he says gruffly, turning around. I watch as a flashlight beam flashes on the ground in front of him, highlighting his heavy, military grade boots. "Let's get back before he decides to test the next round on us."

I wait, holding stone still, my back pressed up against the wall, until the sounds of their booted footsteps and muffled voices have faded again. And then in a flash, Spike releases me, stepping out of my personal space and turning on his heel, murmuring a low "C'mon" just before he takes off back down the tunnel in a light footed sprint. I stare after him, frozen to the spot with panic as I realize what it is he's wanting to do. What it is he's wanting _me_ to do.

He's just about to round the corner, to duck into the split section of the tunnels the two soldiers have just disappeared down, when I catch up to him.

I grip him hard around the arm and pull him back out of the new tunnel, spin him around to face me and hiss, "What are you doing?"

He stares down at me, eyes narrowed. Obviously bemused. Not understanding what it is _I'm_ clearly not understanding. "We have to go after them."

I shift a nervous glance down the tunnel they've just vanished down, the barest hint of their footsteps still echoing back toward us as they get further and further away from us. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, look back toward Spike and ask, "Why?"

You'd think by the look on his face that I've just slapped him.

" _Why_?" he asks, emphasizing the word with a raise of his ridged brow.

Oh, boy.

I hadn't wanted to talk about the twisty, knottiness in my stomach before, but I'm not sure I'm going to have much of a choice now.

"I thought we were just, ya know…" I trail off, gesturing around the space we're standing in numbly, "doing recon."

That's what I'd agreed to. That's _all_ I'd agreed to.

My fingers itch again, and I squeeze them into fists at my sides.

"This place is a bloody maze, pet," Spike explains, shaking his head. "If we don't follow 'em now, we might not be able to find this lair of theirs again."

He's right. God, I know he's right, and _he_ knows he's right. And he knows I know he's right.

And still I find myself glancing back down the tunnel. Stomach clenching and tightening again. Narrowing my eyes into the darkness, listening for the soldier's voices as I murmur, "But…"

I trail off, turn back to my vampire, and I watch as he softens before my eyes. Demon guise melting away, leaving behind twinkling azure eyes, giving me that deep, bottomless look he'd given me the night before. His eyes are glued to mine as he lowers his voice and whispers, "Not gonna let you do anythin' you'll regret, Buffy."

The words catch me completely off guard. Not that they're coming out of nowhere, because they're not. They're coming from a very, very important _somewhere_. Just…not a somewhere I've felt like bringing up. The same somewhere I hadn't wanted to mention when Spike had asked me about it earlier. So the fact that he's somehow managed to read my mind has me reeling a little.

Reeling, and flushing in irritation.

Annoyed, I pull my hand out of his grip and plant my hands on my hips, asking, "What are you talking about?"

"The fight," he says evenly.

Mentally, little bells are going off. _Ding, ding, ding._ He's hit the nail on the head.

My insides flush freezing, frigidly cold, and I cover by asking, "Who said anything about a fight?"

Spike answers me by raising both his eyebrows high.

Okay, fine.

So I _might_ have been thinking about the fight. Or not so much the fight as I'd been thinking about how we were going to put an end to all this, to whatever the hell it is they've been doing down here, once and for all. Knowing that that might mean a fight. It's what Spike had told me before, in my bedroom before going to see Riley. That this all would probably come down to a fight, with the Initiative. With the soldiers. Humans.

And I've spent the last hour or so thinking about that. What might happen in a fight. How it would go. What it would mean.

What I might _do_.

I'd had this same thought the night before, after we'd gone to bed. Isn't this what Spike had told me we'd have to do? That we'd do what we do best, take matters into our own hands. He hadn't said it then, but it had felt implicit.

That we'd have to fight them.

And my fingers had done that tingling thing. My blood had buzzed a little hotter. And my first, hazy thought last night hadn't been how much I hope it doesn't come to that. Hadn't been how desperately I hope I don't have to fight these men, these human men, how I don't want to hurt anyone.

My first reaction had been how desperately I hope it _does_.

In that quiet moment, lying in bed with my new husband, my vampire, my mate…that had been my gut reaction. The singing of my demon. The dark, distant call to violence.

To take matters into our own hands.

And looking up at Spike now, seeing the knowing look on his face, has a surge of guilt, my own this time, trickling like ice water down my back. Because I've been working all this time to ignore it. Have been doing my best not to acknowledge it. Since we set foot down here, I've been trying to ignore it.

But after what we've just found, after hearing those soldiers talking. Knowing the opportunity for a good, hard fight is right here, somewhere inside these tunnels…that we could put an end to all of it right here, right now.

It had all just brought the blood lust roaring back to life.

The same as I'd felt the night before with Riley, but different now. More subtle. Less consuming, violent rage and more of a quiet push. The itching in my fingers that had begun in the waiting room, the moment Spike had shoved the scrap of uniform into my hands and told me what it was. The churning had started again then, too. Steady, starting slow, growing gradually stronger and hotter the deeper into the tunnels we'd come. A low, pulsing hum that had begun in my stomach and had slowly swelled upward. Threaded through my muscles, into my chest, caused the knots in my gut that Spike had mistaken earlier for anxiety.

Or maybe he hadn't mistaken them for anxiety so much as he'd just only picked up on that…the anxiety that the blood lust causes. The inherent fear that seems to go hand in hand with it. The demon that wants the fight, that craves it. _Needs_ it. And me. The Buffy part of me. The part of me that wants to deny my demon what it's calling for, that's absolutely terrified of what could happen if I let the demon's drive outweigh my own.

And he knows it. Spike does. Can recognize it for what it is now, because I've given myself away. And he'd been right all the way a minute ago. I've been consumed with thoughts of this potential fight since he'd handed me that scrap of uniform upstairs. I might want a fight, my _demon_ might want a fight, but it's not time. Not yet. Not when I have such a tenuous grasp of control over it. Not when I'd been so close, _so_ close, to killing someone I'd used to care about just the night before.

I'm not sure what might happen if I let myself get carried away by that heady desire right now.

But I don't think I'm ready to find out.

I frown at Spike, glancing one more time down the darkened tunnel the two Initiative soldiers have just disappeared down, then back to my vampire, sighing.

"I can't fight them, Spike," I whisper to him, shaking my head. "I can't risk it. I'm not ready."

My vampire frowns at me, lines forming around his eyes. He inches a little closer to me. "I told you, sweetheart," he murmurs reassuringly, reaching for me. "I can _help_ you. I won't—"

I step out of his reach just as his hand closes over mine, my voice hardening. Frustrated that he isn't listening, isn't hearing me. "I'm not _ready_."

And I see it then. I see it, and I hate it. Hate myself for causing it. The flash of hurt in his eyes, followed immediately by abject disappointment before they flicker once more and go dark. His expression shifts, going impassive.

Guilt racks my frame again, and I reach for him blindly. "Spike—"

"'S fine," he says quickly, letting me take his hand in mine but not immediately reciprocating the squeeze I give it. "I get it."

But I don't think he does. He's disappointed in me because he thinks I don't trust him to help me, but that isn't it. It isn't that I don't trust him, it's that I don't trust me. Not that I don't think he can help me, but that I don't know if his help would be enough. Back again to the argument I'd made last night. I'm not afraid of him, I'm afraid of _me_. I'm afraid that my control won't be enough, and I'm so used to having to rely only on myself.

And even though he'd promised me just last night that I don't have to think that way anymore, that I'm not alone, that I don't have to carry the weight of the entire world _alone_ …old habits die so incredibly hard.

"We'll just follow them?" I ask, because I know if we're going to do it we need to do it now. Already their footsteps are getting too distant. Spike might be able to track their scents, but down here in the land of the disgusting smells I'm sure they'd all start to blend together eventually.

"Yeah," he agrees, recognizing that I'm trying. His eyes scanning mine for any sign of lingering doubt before he nods. "Find out wherever it is they're going. Then we'll go back topside and tell Giles what we found and where we found it."

I nod and say, "Okay."

I'd been anticipating having to walk a lot further.

Spike and I trail the soldiers for maybe a mile through the tunnels before they suddenly stop, glance furtively around, then disappear into the mouth of a much smaller looking tunnel. We wait for a minute, then cross the empty tunnel space, crouching down to peek around the stone wall and down into the space they've just entered.

I have no idea how we couldn't have known this was here.

The tunnel opens up into a wide subterranean room. It looks like it could have been some kind of bomb shelter, once upon a time. Like it's been dug into the actual bedrock of the city, the walls are jagged rock, the floors surprisingly clean, almost polished looking cement. There's a generator in the corner of the room powering low wattage lights that run along the ceiling, a long wooden table surrounded by chairs, a corner with a desk with a complex looking computer set up. There's one open doorway that I can see from here that leads out of the room. Very, very different from the maze-like Initiative lab that had been hidden beneath the university a year ago, this is still pretty impressive. And I have a feeling looking down into the room there's probably more to the facility that we can't even see from here.

Crouching down lower in the opening, I scan the room, taking in the four people occupying it now. The two soldiers we'd followed from the tunnel below the hospital that I actually vaguely recognize from my short stint with the Initiative the year before. A frail, young looking man in a white lab coat hunched over the desk at the computer in the right hand corner of the room are who I spot first. Then I notice the tall, silver haired man at the center of the room, dressed similarly to the other two soldiers, but giving off a very different vibe. Judging by body language alone, I'd have to guess that whoever this guy is, he's the ringleader of the operation. Arms folded over his chest, eyes narrowed on the soldiers in front of him. He's speaking to them now in low tones, but I can hear him easily enough.

From the look and sound of things, we've missed the first half of the conversation.

"And do you want to explain to me how it got out there in the first place?" the silver haired man asks, his voice deep, gravelly, like he needs to clear his throat but doesn't want to bother to take the time. I notice for the first time that he's holding another plastic syringe and needle in his hand, identical to the one we'd found out in the tunnels.

But this one is entirely empty.

"I'm not sure, sir," one of the other men responds, and I recognize the voice of soldier number one from the tunnels. He's about as young as I'd pictured, sandy blonde with a crew cut, average height and build. I'm pretty sure I recognize him from last year. He casts a glance over at his companion, soldier number two, I'm guessing, and says, "But it won't happen again."

The silver haired man doesn't look convinced. His eyes narrow, expression cold as he looks toward the second soldier, a slightly taller man with cropped black hair that I also vaguely recognize, and asks, "And the subject?"

The black haired soldier nods. "It's been taken care of."

This has the silver haired man widening his eyes, dark brows raising high on his forehead as he rocks back on his heels, bracing his free hand on his hip. For a minute, just one, I think he might be about to laugh.

He doesn't.

"Except it _hasn't_ been, has it?" he yells suddenly, deep, gravelly voice a loud boom, filling up the cavernous room below us. "If you'd just done your goddamn job the first time I asked you to, we wouldn't still be stuck here in this hell hole, hiding under ground, with _nothing_ to show for it."

The soldiers standing in front of him don't flinch, even though I get the distinct impression they'd both like to. The little man in the white coat, on the other hand, does. Shrinks away from the bellowing voice, turning his head to the side to timidly say, "I wouldn't say we have nothing, Smith." He gestures toward his glowing computer screen, to something I can't see from here, his hand shaking as he does. "What we _have_ developed—"

"What we've developed is nothing new," the silver haired man, the one the smaller man had called Smith, hisses angrily. Turning toward the computer screen and glaring at it as though it's personally offended him. "The government's been doing that for years. The only thing that makes _this_ ," he wiggles the empty syringe in his hand demonstratively, the needle glinting in the dim light, "worth anything is our little secret ingredient."

And I have a horrible, stomach churning idea I know exactly what it is he's talking about.

And it's getting worse. Just like I'd worried it might, the churning in my gut roiling, blood bubbling to life as I stare down into the room.

"I told you," the little scientist insists in a small voice, looking like he wants to crawl underneath his desk and never come back out again. "The initial sample wasn't _enough_." He shifts his eyes apologetically toward the two soldiers in front of him before looking back toward Smith. "We need more."

I tense, muscles straining under my skin, uncomfortably tight with the sudden, overwhelming urge to jump to my feet. The churning in my gut picking up speed, growing hotter. I narrow my eyes. _You want more?_ I suddenly want to scream, leap down into the room and take the silver haired guy by the throat _. Come and get it._

I grit my teeth against the urge, the weight of Spike's hand settling over my elbow enough to ground me. For now.

Below us, Smith is shaking his head. Seething, oozing a mixture of rage and frustration. He turns back to his soldiers. "Jesus, can _any_ of you morons do your jobs? No wonder Ward shut the operation down the first time." He whips his gaze back toward the blonde soldier, asking, "Have you tracked down the Slayer yet?"

And if there'd been any doubt, any doubt at all about who they'd come back to Sunnydale for, that had ended it.

A low, instinctual growl rumbles from Spike's chest at the mention of my title, his body shifting automatically to shield me from the potential threat of the man below us. I reach up and cover his hand with mine and squeeze in hopes of reassuring him, never taking my eyes off the room. But in my mind, I'm only thinking about the fact that I was right. They had been after me that night. They'd been after my blood.

Only thinking now about how easy it would be to snap this jerk's neck. How insanely _satisfying_ it would feel.

My stomach rolls again. Nails biting into my palms as I curl hands tighter into fists.

"We've gone back out every night looking for her, sir," the blonde responds immediately, hands clasped tightly behind his back. "She hasn't been in the cemeteries, or—"

"Well then maybe you should try looking somewhere other than the cemeteries?" Smith interrupts him, his voice raising to bellowing levels again. He narrows his eyes, looking between the blonde and black haired men, then scoffs, throwing his free hand up in exasperation. "You're ex-military, for God's sake, I shouldn't have to be _telling_ you this."

That sparks something in me, drawing me out of my thoughts. I glance toward Spike, and he's already looking at me, a matching expression of confusion on his face.

Ex _-military?_

Still trying to look unfazed, the soldiers both square their shoulders, hold their ground.

"What do you want us to do, sir?" the black haired one asks.

"I want you to do what I've _asked_ ," Smith snaps, his eyes flashing. " _Find_ her, and get me a better sample." Then he pauses, turns to stare down at the ground at his feet for a long moment. I can't see what he's looking at from here, it's blocked from my gaze by the edge of the wooden table. Finally, he sighs, turns back toward the frightened looking guy in the white lab coat and drops the empty syringe he's been holding down onto the desk. It clatters loudly in the massive, silent room, echoing around the jagged walls, rolling to a stop in front of the computer keyboard.

I watch from our perch as Smith jabs a hard finger in the little man's face, saying, "And _you_ better figure out how to make this work, and you better do it fast." He glances back toward the spot on the ground again, then sighs. "I'm running out of test subjects."

The threat is implicit in his voice, and whatever it is exactly he means sends a visible shiver down the little man's back. I watch as Mr. Smith turns on his heel, walking purposefully out of the room, the two soldiers from before hot on his heels.

The scientist sits there for a minute, inhaling deeply, staring down at the same spot on the floor his employer just had been. Then he glances back toward the empty syringe. Then back to the floor one last time. Shaking his head, he shifts in his chair to gather the papers up off the desk, turns the computer screen off, and exits out the same way as the other three men.

I sit beside Spike, staring after him, listening as his footsteps echo up around the cavernous room for another minute or so until finally, they're gone.

I jump to my feet.

And it's my turn to say, "Come on."

"Absolutely bloody _not_ ," Spike hisses, gripping my wrist, pulling me back into our little perch. I twist out of his embrace, looking up into his face. His brow is furrowed, lips set in a hard line. "Those wankers were just sent back out to _look_ for you, and you wanna go barreling in, guns blazin'?"

"Not exactly," I mumble, realizing he has a point.

And a good one.

"Thought you weren't ready for a fight," he asks pointedly, raising his eyebrows.

Another good one.

It's weird, though. To say I'm not ready for a fight isn't exactly true. The problem isn't that I'm not ready for a fight, it's that I'm more than ready for one. It's that I'm _craving_ one. A combination of knowing that they'd been after me. Not only after me, but after my _blood_. To use a part of me in some kind of experiment? Yes. I'm ready for a fight.

I'm just not ready for the repercussions of that fight.

But the room below us is empty now. The room is empty, and that Smith guy's just ordered everyone out to look for me again, which I'm guessing means they're all off…getting battle ready, or whatever. My guess is I have five minutes, maybe a little more, before they come back through here and back out into the tunnels.

And that's assuming they don't have some other top secret way out of the tunnels through a different opening.

So five minutes.

I can find out a lot in five minutes. No need for a fight.

"There was something up on the computer screen," I tell Spike hurriedly, glancing back down toward the still-empty room, toward the one open doorway, then back again. "There might be files, o-or something else on there that might tell us something about whatever they've been using my blood for."

Spike nods but doesn't let go of me. "Then we tell Red about it, and see if she can hack their system like she did before."

That's totally fine, in theory. But it won't work this time.

I shake my head, saying, "We don't even know what system they're on to have her hack it." Four minutes now, maybe. If I'm lucky. I widen my eyes, beseeching him through the connection as much as I am through my gaze. "I'll be quick, in and out in two minutes, tops."

Because I have to be.

I raise my brows at him expectantly, waiting for a response.

Finally, the vampire sighs needlessly. "We get out when I say we get out."

I nod. He nods back, leans forward to impulsively smash his lips to mine, then releases me.

I turn and launch myself drop down as silently as I can into the interior of the subterranean room, hustling over on impossibly quiet feet until I reach the desk, the computer. My hands flutter over the keyboard, pressing various buttons, totally unsure which one it is that'll bring the screen back to life. This isn't exactly your average, run-of-the-mill desk top computer.

I make a couple different attempts before giving up, hands flailing. Frustrated, sending one quick, panicked glance toward the open doorway, I whirl around on the desk to ask Spike for help.

And immediately freeze.

Because there's a body on the floor.

Dressed in one of the old green uniforms, the pale, still form of another Initiative soldier is lying on the floor. Not moving.

Not breathing.

I stare at it, blinking. Forgetting for a moment about the ticking count down in my head. Forgetting about the twisting anxiety knots, and the swirling, burning going on below that. Because there's a body on the floor. Just…laying there. Unmoving. This is what they'd been looking at. What I hadn't been able to see from my perch in the tunnel's opening to the room. A body.

"Buffy." Spike's launching himself down into the room before I can blink again, falling to his feet gracefully and moving toward me as he asks, "What is it?"

"A-a soldier," I tell him, not taking my eyes off the body in front of me. My gaze glued to his, open, unseeing. I shake my head, stutter a little. "I think he's dead."

"Mmm, yep," Spike says, almost dismissively as he brushes past me, only sparing a brief, passing glance at the body before turning his attention toward the computer. I turn and watch his face, the way his azure eyes gleam in the dim light as he narrows them, places his hands at the keyboard. A few key clicks and the screen comes to life again, revealing a blank blue background and nothing else. Frowning, he begins clicking around the desktop in search of something, anything, and I turn my eyes back toward the body on the floor again.

Because things are starting to make a dark, twisty kind of sense.

"That guy…he mentioned test subjects," I murmur, voice low. Looking toward the open doorway again, then back down to the soldier. My eyes scan over him, down to his booted feet, up to his head, back down again. "They've been…testing something."

It's on the second sweep that I see it.

A red fleck.

I lean a little closer, staring at the uniformed upper arm blankly, dim realization fighting its way into my brain. That this guy is lying here, dead on the floor. That this guy has the same teeny tiny blood-mixture fleck on his arm as the one on the uniform scrap Spike had originally found. In a flash, I whirl around on the desk chair, lunge for the empty syringe that Smith had left on the desk in front of the computer. Wordlessly, I spin around again and drop onto my knees on the ground in front of the body. Lift the syringe to his arm, the freaky large gauge of the needle matching up perfectly with the size of the red dot on the material of his uniform.

Identical to the mark on the scrap Spike had found in the tunnels.

Whatever the stuff had been they'd mixed my blood with, it had been injected into this guy's arm.

And judging from the deathly pallor of his face now, it hadn't gone well.

"Looks like they've graduated from experimenting on demons to experimenting on humans," I murmur numbly, letting the weight of that settle on my shoulders as I turn back to look at Spike.

He nods, not looking at me, eyes narrowed as he reads through whatever it is he's just found on the computer screen. "Doesn't seem like it's gone any better for them this time round," he says, leaning a little closer to the screen and narrowing his eyes further. "'Test subjects, one through twelve, serum A'." He glances at me, reaching a black tipped nail to point toward the screen. "There's twelve entries here, all have little D's beside 'em."

"D..." I trail off, frowning, re-reading the spreadsheet again. "Like a grade? If the experiments failed I'd think it'd be an F."

Spike turns his head toward me, eyes level with mine. "This isn't a report card, luv." He inclines his head toward the body on the floor. "My guess is D is for deceased."

Oh.

Oh, _God_.

That has my stomach clenching, rolling, a fresh surge of rage making my hands curl into shaking fists at my sides. "They've been using some freaky mixture with my blood to run tests on their own men?" I ask unsteadily.

Spike murmurs a rumbling sound of agreement. "Was meant to do somethin' to the blokes they injected with it." His eyebrows raise high, and he turns back to look at me expectantly. Like he suddenly understands perfectly. "Give 'em a little extra _oomph_ , maybe?"

I frown at him, still on my knees on the stone floor. The empty syringe still in my hand. My lashes flutter rapidly. "You're thinking…super soldiers?"

Spike cocks his head to the side, half inclined toward the open doorway. Like he's listening for some imperceptible noise as he says, "S what they were tryin' to do last time, wasn't it? With Adam?"

 _Ugh,_ Adam.

"And remember how well that turned out," I mutter. Then, frowning deeply, "My blood's not where my power comes from, though. I mean, if that's what they're thinking..." I trail off, frowning. "That mixing my blood with whatever they're mixing it with is going to give their soldiers Slayer strength or Slayer speed or any of that, it won't."

Spike eyes me, head still cocked toward the door. Looking a little like I've maybe sprouted a second head. "Which...is a _good_ thing, since that means whatever these wankers are plannin' won't work."

That's exactly my point, though. It won't _work_. But they'll probably keep trying, which means they'll keep trying to find me. And if they can't find me, how long do you think it'll take for them to figure out Faith?

And in the meantime they're killing people.

Their _own_ people.

It's what I'm thinking about when I feel it. The subtle, nearly imperceptible shift in Spike's body language as he hears the sounds a second before I do. He shifts, pushes himself away from the desk and starts moving toward me. "We gotta go, pet."

I hear it now, too. Booted feet coming back down the stone hallway, voice echoing up around the tunnels. Someone, loud and clear, the voice of the sandy blonde soldier barking orders at a group of men as they come barreling back toward the cavernous room.

"Wait," I say, even as I scramble back up to my feet. The plastic syringe falling out of my hands as I whirl around, lunging toward the desk, the computer, again. "The files—"

"Right now, Buffy," Spike growls, voice tense.

I ignore him, running my eyes over the files again, looking for something, _anything_. I don't even know what. Something I can tell Willow, maybe. Something to help her hack into their system later. We're gonna need to have access to this.

We're gonna need _proof_.

"There has to be something—"

I'm cut off when my vampire reaches for me, hands wrapping around my shoulders to force me to look at him.

"You said you weren't ready to fight them," he says sternly, eyes darting over my shoulder toward the doorway. Anxiety flooding between us, both his and mine, dark navy eyes snapping back to mine. "Let's get the bloody hell out of here before you don't have a choice."

That does it. Breaks through the panicky haze, cuts through the churning in my stomach like acid.

I nod urgently, eyes widening as I move impossibly fast to follow him back toward the tunnel opening. We reach the edge of the wall and he steps aside, giving me space to launch myself forward, my hands on the jagged edge of the rock, scraping against the stone as I haul myself up to the main tunnel's level. I dust my hands off and turn around again, just enough time to see the sandy blonde soldier entering into the room, a group of at least ten men that I can see directly behind him.

In the time it takes for me to realize what's happening, in the time it takes for me to shout Spike's name in loud, urgent warning, the blonde soldier's already raised his gun, aimed it at the vampire's back and pulled the trigger.

Pain.

Incredible, sudden, white hot pain rockets through the back of my left shoulder, sizzling through the muscle, and cutting through the space only inches above where my heart is beating a thousand miles a minute, slamming into my chest. But the pain isn't mine, it's _his_. Is Spike's. And it's is forgotten entirely when I hear the wounded roar that's torn from Spike's lips in the same moment, his feet hitting the tunnel, body stumbling into mine with a force I don't expect.

The pain vanishes, replaced with incredible, sudden, white hot rage.

If I didn't have my arms wrapped around my vampire's waist, if I didn't feel like I needed to keep him held up, I'd have already leapt back down into that room and snapped the stupid blonde soldier's neck. It's one of those things I know. Just _know_. Somewhere down deep, in my bones. In the pit of my stomach. The darkest, deepest part of me. I want to kill him. I want to hear the sound of his bones snapping beneath the strength of my bare hands because he shot my husband. He shot my husband, my _mate_. And it doesn't even matter in this moment that I know bullets can't kill vampires. That I know Spike might be in pain right now, but that it'll pass. That the reality is he'll be almost fully healed by the time we find our way up and out of the tunnels. I don't care. Right now, I don't care.

I want to _kill_ the sandy blonde soldier.

And if we stay, if we keep standing here, if I risk a full on fire fight now, I will.

And the only thing I want more than that is to get out of here. Is to _not_ kill him. To not give into the roiling, scorching, aching darkness that's boiling its way through my veins now. Tinging my vision in blurry shades of red. All I want is to get Spike far, far away from the soldiers and their guns and their crossbows and the heavy tread of their footsteps.

So instead of leaping down into the room, I loop my arm more tightly around Spike's waist and turn, taking off at a wild sprint back down the tunnel.


	48. Chapter 47

I have no idea, none at all, which way I'm going. Which direction the hospital is from here. I hadn't been paying enough attention when we'd followed those soldiers down here the first time. I'm directionally challenged enough as it is without the imminent threat of a fight on my heels, let alone with a struggling, wounded vampire pinned against my side.

Under my arm, Spike straightens, murmuring something to me about how he's fine. That everything's alright, that I can let go.

And I hear him, I do. But I can't get my arm to loosen. He has to reach around and grip my hand, yank it away from where its death locked around his hip, taking it into his own so he can separate himself physically from me. I know he has to. We can't run as fast as we need to with me trying so desperately to keep him close to me. We've managed to get a decent head start just by virtue of our speed but it's only a matter of time before they gain on us.

So grudgingly, listening to his voice in my ear, I allow him to pull my hand away from his waist and use his grip on my hand to pull me along behind him. Which is good.

Good, because his grip on my hand might be the only thing keeping me from compulsively turning around and holding my ground until the soldiers reach us. His hand in mine grounds me, keeps me from doing that.

"Which way is it?" I ask him dazedly, sprinting along beside him. I turn to glance behind me and I can see them, or rather I can see some flashlight beams, maybe fifty yards away. Gaining fast.

"I dunno," Spike growls, the sound low as he looks ahead of us, shifting his eyes from side to side. He's back in game face again. I hadn't noticed him shift. When had that happened? When he'd been shot? "I'm all bloody turned around now."

But we're coming up to a split in the main tunnel and we're going to have to make a decision.

"There's only two ways we can go, Spike." I pull my hand out of his, no longer needing it to hold me in place. All I'm thinking about now is getting out of the tunnels all together. Now. "Right or left?"

And they're getting closer, because I can hear them now. Hear the sound of their boots and the yelling clear as day now that the red haze, the blood pounding in my ears has let up. They're catching up to us somehow, even though we're still managing to sprint impossibly fast. Faster than I think I've ever run before. We reach the split in the tunnel with maybe ten seconds to spare until their on us. And I don't know, still don't know, which way to go. Left or right.

"Left," Spike says suddenly, just in time.

I dive to the left, Spike leaping in behind me, and it becomes clear immediately that left had definitely not been the right way to go. I land hard against a rusted metal grate, about five feet into the tunnel we've chosen. All the power I'd been sprinting with a moment ago coming to an abrupt, sudden halt as my face slams into the grate, the air leaving my lungs in a whoosh just as Spike smashes into the grate behind me. He catches himself before the weight of his body can add to the non-air having in my lungs, but he doesn't move away either. Instead he presses into me, ducks his head against my shoulder and tells me to hold still.

Unthinkingly, I do.

And the yelling that had been behind us, the yelling I'd been barely registering before, is right there. Twenty feet away. Shouting, boots scuffling.

"Which way did they go?" one of them asks. It might be the voice of the sandy blonde soldier that had shot Spike, but I'm not sure.

Another responds, "I don't know, I couldn't see."

Ten feet.

And still another says, "I can't see anything."

Five.

There's more talking, more barking of orders as they get closer still and a call for flashlights. I feel my muscles tighten, clenching in anticipation of the inevitable fight I know in my bones is going to happen. Is going to _have_ to happen now. My stomach does that all too familiar churning thing, and Spike presses himself more tightly against me. His cheek is cool where it's resting against the curve of my neck, his head still down, hands resting on top of mine. I dig my fingers harder into the metal grille, the puddle of water I'm standing in seeping through the worn out tennis shoes and into my socks as we stand still. The smell of salt and a gross, fishy scent reaches my nose over the familiar scent of sewer and I'm guessing this specific tunnel leads toward the beach, not the hospital.

And then they pass us. Don't stop, don't even slow down. The whole thundering herd of them, I honestly can't tell how many just by the sound, too much echo, scuttling past our tiny grated tunnel and further down the main tunnel, growing fainter and fainter until the sounds suddenly stop.

And then there's silence.

I exhale, tension slipping away as I let the air I'd been holding in my lungs leek out in one long, slow breath. My heart hammering against my chest, in my ears. There's still an aching twitch in my fingers, a steady hum buzzing in my blood. That call to violence, or for vengeance maybe, still there. Still calling out, wanting to be recognized. But the threat's no longer immediate, so it's easier for me to push it back down. Force it out.

Go back to trying to ignore it.

Spike lifts his head and pushes away from me, a sharp twinge of irritation bursting tight across my chest as he does. Letting out a low, frustrated growl at me as he turns away and back toward the tunnel's opening. I turn, too, brow furrowed as I stare at the back of his head. Wondering why he's so obviously angry with me.

I'm about to ask, when my shoulder twinges, bringing me back into the very real moment with the very real soldiers and the very real fact that we're still hiding away on the opposite end of the tunnels from the hospital entrance which means we have about fifty armed soldiers between us and safety.

And Spike's still bleeding. I can see it now, the thin trickle of blood left behind by the wound in his left shoulder.

I step toward him, my hands flying up to frame the wound, the tear in his leather duster it's left there, too. "You're bleeding," I tell him, fingers feathering over the wound, fighting the very real, inexplicable urge to lean up and press my lips to the bloodied gash.

But Spike pulls out of my reach before the thought can fully form, shrugging away from me and stepping up closer to the shaft's entrance. "Just a bullet," he says gruffly, glancing back at me. His eyes dark, unreadable. "I'll live."

Then he turns, and I watch, frowning, as he creeps up to take a hesitant glance around the corner. "Need to get you out of the tunnels, though, before they find you. Only so many places to hide down here."

And I hear it then. The way he says it. _Hide_ , like he thinks it's so ridiculous. Heat flares across my cheeks, and I lunge for him before I can stop myself. Grip his arm and spin him back to face me. Thinking of his words to me last night again, the blood lust he's been fighting, the desire he has to take these guys out to keep me safe. He wants to fight them to put an end to this.

To keep me safe.

"Look," I say, squeezing his arm, "I know you'd rather be testing out your new chipless brain on those jerks, and believe me, I get that, but—"

"You think _that's_ what this is about?" he asks me, voice low, heated, gesturing to himself as if to gesture toward the feelings he's inundating me with. "That I'm frustrated that I'm not gonna get my pound of flesh?"

I blink up at him, eyes wide. Confused by the fresh surge of anger rolling off him now. "Well, you're mad that I don't want to fight—"

"Exactly, pet," he says, softening just a little as he reads the expression on my face. "I'm mad that _you_ don't want to fight them."

Oh.

 _Oh_.

I see it now. That same soft flicker of disappointment in his eyes as he stares down at me.

"They're _human_ , Spike," I say, voice low. Like I need to remind him again because he obviously still doesn't understand. He might understand the blood lust. He might even understand how to temper it, or control it, or whatever. But he doesn't understand the fear that comes with it. How could he?

Spike just scoffs, shaking his head. "These sods have been experimenting on their own people, pet. They're hardly innocent."

His words strike a weird chord with me. Maybe because it's what I'd been thinking earlier, just before they'd stormed back into that underground room. Maybe because it's what I'd been thinking when I'd wanted to tear that soldier's head off his shoulders. I'd been thinking that. They they'd been killing people, and that made them guilty.

That made them worthy of punishment.

But now I wonder if that had just been an excuse.

"Six months ago I think I would've disagreed with you," I murmur, tearing my eyes away from Spike's. Biting down into the inside of my cheek. "I think I would have said that a human, somebody with a soul, was automatically innocent. Like a soul is some kind of...get out of jail free card or something." I laugh, but the sound is humorless. "Human good, demon bad, ya know? That's what they teach us. But now I..." I trail off, hands curling into tight fists, nails digging into the scraped up palms of my hands. I shake my head, find Spike's eyes with mine and ask, "Is this just my demon talking? Am I trying to come up with excuses for why feeling the way I felt back there is _okay_?"

Spike softens and reaches for me, but it's my turn to step out of his reach. He frowns at me, letting his hands fall back to his sides with a smack.

Tilting his head to the side, eyes open, widening meaningfully, he says, "I wouldn'a let you do anythin', luv."

I exhale through my nose, looking away from him. "You keep saying that, but-"

"But you don't trust me," he finishes for me, the words leaving his lips on a tired sounding sigh.

My eyes flash and snap back to his, another ice-cold wave of frustration spreading across my chest as I say, "Of _course_ I trust you."

Have I not shown him that? God, have I not shown him that _repeatedly_?

"No, you don't," Spike tells me, shaking his head. He repeats the words softly. Then he steps up closer to me, reaches forward and slays his hand over my stomach, directly over the pit where I feel the darkness, the churning heat, emanating from. "Not to help you with _this_. You want to but you don't, or you wouldn't be this bloody scared. I've told you before, and I've been tellin' you, and God knows I'll _keep_ tellin' you until I can get it through that thick, beautiful skull of yours," he pulls his hand off my stomach and reaches up to cradle the side of my head instead, eyes trailing over my face as he does. There's still anger between us, but it's softer now. Fading around the edges, being steadily replaced by a tingling, glowy kind of warmth that I'll always be able to recognize. The one emotion that's always there, beneath everything else. "I can help you. I _can_. You just don't want me to for whatever bloody reason."

"That's not true," I tell him, but even as I say it I think it might be.

Spike knows it to, because he just looks at me and shakes his head, dropping his hand away from my hair. "You talk about me bein' your partner and your husband and the two buggering halves of a whole but the second, the _second_ , it comes down to you really needin' somethin' from me you hold back."

I frown.

So he had noticed that, then.

I try and think of something to say now. Something honest. Something honest that isn't going to make things worse between us now. And I can't think of anything, not one thing, to say. Because I've _always_ been that way. Have always felt like I had to be that way. I don't know how _not_ to be that way. It's one thing to be told you don't have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders anymore. It's one thing to be told you're not alone in a fight where for so long you've been told the exact opposite. It's one thing to be told.

It's another thing to understand. And still another to _know_.

Because as much as I've come to rely on Spike, as much as I do lean on him when I can, I haven't fully come to know that.

And now I don't have anything worthwhile to say.

Realizing this at the same moment as I do, Spike sighs, rolls his eyes and says, "We need to get out of here before the soldier boys come back this way."

In silent agreement, we peel ourselves off the tunnel wall and peek around the edge. Coast clear, Spike grabs a hold of my wrist and begins to lead me out, back into the open main tunnel and hopefully back in the right direction toward the hospital.

We round the corner, and immediately find ourselves face to face with one of the soldiers, staring down the barrel of a gun.

My reaction time has never been faster than it is now.

I break free of Spike's grip and push my body in front of his, knocking the gun out the soldier's grasp with my left hand and gripping him tight around the neck with my right. I squeeze hard, haul him back into the small tunnel shaft with us and slam him up against the damp wall. In an instant, my hand tightens, and I'm seeing red all over again. That's all it had taken. Just that half second, that initial gut reaction.

And just this taste, this itty bitty taste of violence has my demon purring, soothed. Every inch of my skin vibrating, blood hot, the churning in my gut burning brighter than it ever has before. I'm not sure what had done it this time, either. Seeing the gun, maybe. Even knowing bullets can't kill vampires. Seeing this gun aimed at Spike had made everything in me boil, explode. And all I want, the only thing I want, is to make someone pay for the still bleeding wound I can feel pulsing angrily in my own shoulder as surely as if I'd been shot myself.

The whole thing, my entire reaction, takes all of maybe a half second.

The only problem?

The Initiative soldier I have by the throat isn't the soldier who shot Spike.

The soldier I have by the throat isn't an Initiative soldier at all.

"Riley?" I ask shakily, realization cutting through the white hot haze around my vision as I blink at him. Then I narrow my eyes, a low growl tearing from my lips as my first instinct is to tighten my grip. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Can't answer your question if he can't breathe, pet," Spike rumbles lowly beside me, and the red in my vision flickers and goes fuzzy around the edges, my fingers loosening automatically as I shift my eyes back toward my vampire. He nods encouragingly, and I realize what he's just done.

Oh.

 _Wow_.

"Sorry," I say lamely, looking back toward my ex, a little of the heat starting to drain away as I take in the bright red marks my fingers have left on Riley's throat. "I thought you were one of them."

I still think he might be, but the steady thrum of tranquility coming toward me from my left is keeping me from reaching back up and wrapping my hand around his neck again.

He frowns at me, rubbing at his throat gently, asking, "One of who, exactly?"

"Initiative soldiers," Spike supplies, voice flat. Like it should be obvious. There' a tiny btof smugness in his voice now, too, though. "Whole lot of 'em, runnin' round the tunnels? Surely you saw them."

Riley opens his mouth to answer, but I don't give him a chance.

"What are you doing here?" I ask him again, lowering my voice. "I thought you said if there was a fight you wouldn't be in it."

He drops his hand away from his neck and nods, casting a wary glance toward Spike and saying, "That was before—"

"No," I counter immediately, narrowing my eyes on him, "see I'm remembering it as being after. As in _after_ you tried to stake my husband."

"Okay, I didn't actually…" he pauses, freezes, eye widening comically as he leans toward me and says, "Wait, did you just say _husband_?"

He's doing it again. That thing he'd done the night before, that nasty tinge to his voice, like he'd like nothing more than to shove a sharp piece of wood through his chest.

I make to lunge toward him, but Spike stops me. Grabs me by the arm, pressing his cool, chilled fingers into the flushed skin and soothing the sparks that had been building in my gut.

"Maybe we can we argue about this later?" Spike interjects, his eyes focused on Riley instead of on me. "Say, when we aren't trapped down here like sodding rats?"

Point. Another good one.

 _Still_.

"How did you know we were down here?" I ask, still feeling suspicious. Only made slightly less suspicious by the fact that Riley's very obviously wearing all black tactical gear and not the green that the soldiers who'd been chasing us had been. Not that that means anything, but it's something I guess.

"Giles called," he says flatly, shifting to the side to lift his gun back up into his hands. I watch him warily, but don't lunge for him again. Just watch him warily as he inclines his head toward my vampire. "Told me Spike found something in the tunnels."

That has me frowning, thinking back to that odd little exchange between Spike and my Watcher earlier in the waiting room.

 _Well?_

 _It's been handled_.

Spike had told Giles to call Riley?

"Speakin' of finding things," Spike says purposefully, his hand still wrapped around my arm, "what exactly did you find out about your old mates?"

Riley turns his eyes back toward my vampire. Eyes him, scanning his face warily. Then he sighs and admits, "I couldn't find anything."

"Oh, well that's bloody helpful," he growls, rolling his eyes.

"You don't get it," Riley insists. "I couldn't find anything." Spike and I exchange a look, turning back toward Riley with twin expressions of confusion. My ex looks back and forth between us, then sighs, looking annoyed that we don't seem to be understanding. "There's no record. As in _none_. Not a hidden one, not even old records from last year. I was right when I told you the Initiative doesn't exist anymore."

"Then who the bloody hell is it we're hidin' from?" Spike demands heatedly, his hand tightening instinctively where it's still wrapped around my arm.

I glance at him, my voice not much louder than a confused whisper as I ask, "And why did I recognize some of them?"

"Because they _used_ to be a part of the Initiative," he explains, voice low. "They just aren't anymore. It was buried, completely wiped out. Tons of people in the military lost their jobs in the process, everyone from the higher ups down to us. A lot of the ex-Initiative soldiers were offered other positions in the military, like I was, but there was a big group of them who declined or deserted."

I'm putting two and two together now. Quickly. What that Smith guy had said to the soldiers when he'd been yelling at them.

 _You're ex-military for God's sake._

Ex.

"The guy running this operation," I say quickly, eyes finding Riley's again. "They called him Smith. Does that ring any ex-Initiative bells?"

Riley's eyes widen slightly. "Smith?" he echoes, and the look on his face is wigging me a little.

"What?" I ask, shifting my gaze between the two men in front of me. "Is that bad?"

He inclines his head to the side and mutters, "Well, it's not good."

Not that I hadn't pretty much had that much pegged already, what with the whole performing experiments on his own people and everything…but the way he's just said it has my insides flushing cold.

Brushing past whatever memory the name has him thinking of, Riley looks back to me and asks, "Did you find anything else out?"

"Found their headquarters, or what all," Spike volunteers, peeking out into the main tunnel space, looking from side to side. He's anxious, too. "'S about it."

That has Riley's attention piqued again, eyes shifting back to the vampire. "Can you show me?" Riley asks him, standing up a little straighter. Tightening the hold on the gun in his hand.

"I can, yeah," Spike agrees, nodding. Casting another sidelong glance at me. "Later. What say we get out of this bloody labyrinth first, yeah?"

He doesn't wait for a response. Just moves, uses his grip on my arm to pull me along with him, and I let him. Numb.

"What's the hurry?" Riley asks, but he follows us out into the main tunnel space anyway, hoisting his gun a little higher into his hands as he does. Spike drops his hand away from my arm, letting me fall into step beside him. He positions himself wordlessly, purposefully between me and my ex, which I'm grateful for.

"I want to get Buffy out of here before your pals come headin' back this way," Spike answers him simply, the three of us falling into a quick, urgent stride. "She's the one they've been after."

That looks like it surprises Riley, his eyes widening as he leans around Spike's shoulder to look at me. Like he's half expecting me to disagree.

We turn to the right, down into a new stretch of darkened tunnel. Spike seeming to know where it is he's going now.

I just clear my throat and nod, not stopping my quiet, quick stride. "They've been using a sample they got of my blood in some sort of whacked out, failed experiment."

Riley blinks at me, his eyes going wide. He doesn't stop walking either, but his whispered hiss of " _What_?" grates on my nerves.

"Yeah," I say. "Trying to create some type of super soldier serum, we think. Like last year…but using eau-de-Slayer instead of demon parts this time."

He narrows his eyes skeptically. "How do you know that?"

"There were files on the computer," I tell him flatly. "I wanted to get them, but then…with the running and the chasing," I pause as we round the corner to the left, finally coming out into one of the fluorescent light lit tunnels as I add, "and the guns…"

And the words die on my lips as we turn the corner, heading toward the right and coming face to face with about twenty of said guns, at least ten crossbows.

No less than thirty soldiers.

And he's there, too. The silver haired man, Smith. Standing at the front of the group, arms folded across his chest, looking big and stony and smug. I glare at him on impuse, my fingers instantly starting to itch again. He isn't looking at me, though. His cold, grey eyes are glued to my left. Focused intently on Riley.

"Stay that weapon, Finn," he says steadily, evenly, with the air of a man who's used to commanding people and never being questioned. It's more than obvious the two know each other, though I'm realizing now that Riley hadn't actually gotten to that part.

When Riley doesn't move to lower his gun, though, Smith simply orders him again. "Unload it, and set it on the ground."

Riley hesitates. His eyes scan the crowd of soldiers, their guns and bows all trained on one of us or the other. Looking like he's weighing an escape, what he might be able to get away with doing. For a moment, just one, I think he's going to start firing off rounds into the lines of men. But then he nods. Looking toward Spike, then to me. His expression is strained and almost apologetic when his eyes meet mine, like suddenly things are worse than he'd anticipated. Like seeing this man has changed everything.

My body flushes cold.

I watch as he does what he's been instructed to do, unloading the gun, bullets clattering to the stone floor before he bends, setting the tactical rifle down in front of his feet and standing back up.

"Can't say I'm all that surprised to see you here. I'd wondered when your little girlfriend there might consider calling you in."

"Colonel" he says stiffly, his voice strained. Edgy, nervous. "Can't say I'm all that surprised to see you, either."

Oh, whoa.

 _Colonel?_

Smith just scoffs, barking a short laugh. "At ease, soldier," he says bitterly, eyes flashing in the fluorescent light. "Can't exactly pull rank on you anymore, can I? You know, I thought about trying to recruit you for this…special op of mine. But you were always just so…good. Annoyingly straight and narrow. Though I guess you did always have questionable loyalties." His eyes slide over to Spike as if to illustrate his point, thin lips twisting up at one corner, like he's entirely unimpressed. Then his gaze narrows in on me. His eyes rake over my face, slowly down my body, all the way down to my tennis shoes and back up again. "You're not nearly as impressive in person as you are on paper." His lips twitch, and he adds, "Or in photographs."

Spike snarls at him, already back in full game face. Eyes narrowed, glittering gold as he inches in front of me, his shoulder blocking me partially from Smith's view. Every muscle tensed. Like at any moment he might physically launch himself forward and tear the guy's throat out. I can feel it, too. How badly he wants to do exactly that.

But with the many, many guns and the crossbows leveled at us, he won't risk it.

I'm praying to the PTB he won't risk it.

For his sake, and for mine.

Smith just shifts cool, grey eyes from me back over to my vampire. Unfazed. Unthreatened. "And this would be the infamous Hostile 17, I'm guessing." He unfolds his arms, planting his hands on his hips. He looks between the two of us again, then laughs. "What are you, the Slayer's bodyguard now?"

If Spike's surprised that he knows who he is, he doesn't show it. For his part, Riley doesn't seem overly surprised, either.

Spike steps a little further in front of me, fangs gleaming in the harsh fluorescent lighting above us as he says, "Bettin' you know as well as I do the Slayer doesn't need a bodyguard."

"I do know that," Smith agrees blithely, eyes narrowing slightly as his lips form a hard line. "Which begs the question of why the hell _you_ keep getting in my way."

He's talking about that night in the cemetery, I know. I'm sure whoever it is that'd been out there that night ha d reported the incident back to him.

Probably one of the soldiers that they'd tested Serum A on later.

"What can I say?" Spike counters, the words slightly distorted slightly around his fangs. "Maybe I have a bit of an axe to grind with you tin soldiers."

Smith nods and raises his brows, saying, "Then you should take that up with Washington." He pulls his hands off his hips ad gestures around to his soldiers. "We're not exactly in the demon hunting business anymore."

"No. Now you miserable sods are in the Slayer huntin' business," Spike scoffs, goading the other man. Rolling his eyes and muttering derisively, "Right _brilliant_ , that."

Smith's eyes flash and narrow nearly to slits, his previous amusement flickering and fading out. "Look," he says dismissively, looking bored. "I have absolutely zero interest in you. You are, however, standing directly between me and the thing that I need. And I'll take a wild guess and assume you won't just step aside if I ask nicely." He sounds more irritated, more like he's being slightly inconvenienced than anything else. In a flash, he reaches out, snatching the big, tactical looking crossbow out of the hands of the soldier beside him and spinning to aim it directly at Spike's heart, saying, "So unfortunately…"

The threat's barely been made, the realization barely sunk in, when Spike reaches out immediately to wrap his hand around my wrist. His thumb pressing into my pulse point reassuringly. It's an action that seems to confuse the soldiers that are watching us now. The one that has the bow and arrow trained on Spike's heart, included.

My reaction is immediate. Instinctual. The arm in my vampire's grip twitching, muscles tensed with the violent urge to reach out, grab Smith by the neck and smash his head against the nearest tunnel wall.

Spike senses it at the same time as I do and responds with a bracing squeeze to my arm, pushing me further behind him. Then he squares his shoulders toward the hulking silver haired man.

"Try it, mate," he purrs at him, the sound of his voice doing as much to soothe me as it does to rankle Smith. Spike continues to stare him down, running his tongue menacingly along the tip of one pointed incisor. Then he smirks wickedly. Shades of the vampire I haven't really seen in over a year, not since that last fight out on the quad, coming through in full, predatory glory. "You'll be dead before the arrow leaves the bow."

My muscles twitch involuntarily, churning heat inching its way up and into the back of my throat as I stare at the cross bow bolt.

I have two options here. Only two. I can do what I've been fighting so hard not to do all day, risk it, give into the blood lust and let myself fight. Give into the siren call of ferocity and knock the crossbow out of his hands, send him sailing across the room. Start a fight. A _real_ fight.

Or I could try and beat the bolt.

I could risk it. Try and dive in front, spin around in front of Spike and angle my body in front of his so that it hits me. If I do it just right, it'd lodge in my shoulder. Or maybe the middle of my back.

I'm already working through it in my head. How fast I'll have to move to dive in front of it once it's released. But Spike just presses his hand more firmly into my skin, and I can hear it again. The steady thrum of just exactly what he's thinking, as loud a thought in my head as any I'm thinking myself.

 _Don't._

The thought sticks in my head, pulses there for a moment or two, then seems to physically expand. Not just a thought, but an action. A control. I stiffen in place behind the vampire, eyes still glued helplessly toward the crossbow as the demand sinks in. Threads through the rest of my muscles, locking them in place.

And I know without having to think too deeply about what it is he's just done. He's done that thing, used that tone of voice. The one he knows I can't say no to.

And he's done it somehow without saying a word. I don't know how he's done it, but he has.

He's just controlled my actions with his mind.

And all I can do is stare at him, confused, completely baffled by whatever's just happened. And all I can do is watch now. Watch as Smith's finger tightens over the trigger, listen to him speaking, hardly registering as I realize Spike's just taken away my only alternative option.

He's left me with only one.

"And how's that going to work, exactly?" Smith's asking now, his voice and eyes cold, mocking. "You two shook tail and ran the second you'd been found out, and why?"

 _He won't let me dive in front of the crossbow bolt for him._

"From what I understand, you're about as dangerous as Finn's unloaded gun over there."

 _He's about to die. He's about to explode into dust right in front of me and be gone._

"And the Slayer. Real scary. I know all about you, about your little I-don't-kill-humans handicap."

 _There won't even be a body left._

"Why don't you—"

Something inside me snaps.

And I make a choice. A conscious, calculated, knowing _choice._

In a flash, a blinding half second, I tear out of Spike's grip and launch myself at Smith. It only gives him enough time to register that I'm coming toward him, his eyes widening, mouth open in mid-thought, before I'm there. Knocking the crossbow out of his hand just as he's about to squeeze the trigger, sending the bow and the bolt clattering to the ground. And then I spin around, landing a crushing kick to his chest, the kick Spike had taught me those months ago, sending him flying backward. He sails through the air, smashing into the side of the tunnel wall. His head cracks against the stone with a sickening thud, and I watch as he sinks to the ground in a heap.

His eyes are open.

And I think it's possible that I've just killed someone. A human someone. Without a second thought or a moment's hesitation.

And right now, in this exact moment, I don't care. Can't bring myself to. Dimly, I recognize that I will later. Know I won't be able to keep from beating myself up over it. But it was him or Spike. That's the unequivocal truth my mind keeps whirling back to. Why my demon made the decision. Why I gave in and let my demon make that decision. Because in that moment, it had been either him or Spike.

And I'd chosen Spike.

And for whatever reason, that knowledge is so clear in my mind. So incredibly freeing.

I turn cold, blazing eyes back toward the rest of the soldiers, now presumably leaderless, narrowing them slightly as I do. Taking in the suddenly wide-eyed expressions on their faces with a sharp pang of intense satisfaction.

For one incredibly tense, painfully long moment, nobody moves.

And then all hell breaks loose.

Spike lets loose a wild, ear splitting roar and launches himself past me, barreling into three soldiers at once, somehow managing to knock all three of their guns from their hands at the same time. He catches a punch from one of them hard across his jaw, but it only makes the heat of his own blood lust flame higher. I can feel it inside me, too. Burning, bubbling up to the surface. I stand still, staring at the chaos going on around me. Riley to my left, doing what he can to fend off one soldier at a time. Throwing punches, but taking as many as he's throwing. I see him wrest a gun away from one of them, spinning it around, and aiming it.

I turn back toward Spike on my right, watching him move. Watching him fight. Fluid and perfect, and ecstatic to be here, to be fighting. He's busy doing what damage he deems fitting as he finishes with the three soldiers he'd been fighting a moment ago. Picking up a fourth by the throat, lifting him, tossing him back over his shoulder and hard into the wall.

Gun shots ring out, but I can't tell where they're coming from. There's too much movement. Too much chaos.

I don't move. Not at all. Just stand there, watching, frozen to the spot. My eyes riveted to the body on the floor, the open, unseeing eyes staring back at me.

I don't move.

Not until one of the soldiers aims another crossbow at Spike from across the space of the tunnel.

Spike can't see him do it. His back is turned, still busy fighting off two more of the soldiers at the same time. He can't see it, but I can. I'm standing still, watching the soldier numbly as he aims the bow, squints one eye shut to steady it and squeezes the trigger.

I'm not frozen this time. My legs are moving me forward before my brain has a chance to catch up. Throwing myself as hard as I can into Spike's back, sending him and the two soldiers stumbling forward, sprawling into a jumbled heap onto the ground. I spin back around in an attempt to whirl out of the way, but I'm just not quite fast enough. Not fast enough to push Spike out of the way and to avoid getting hit myself.

The pointed tip of the bow's bolt clips the side of my bare arm.

I come to a sudden halt and cry out in pain, my free hand flying to the wound, wrapping tightly around it to stem the flow of blood there. I can feel it, sticky and hot as it seeps between my fingers. My eyes drop down to examine it, watching in a weird kind of slow motion, a hollow rushing in my ears, as I pull my hand away from the gash. Take in the dark crimson stain along my fingers. There isn't a lot of blood there. Not a lot, but just enough.

Just enough to bring my demon roaring back to life.

And this time, I let it. Don't try and shove it down. Don't try and force it away. I let it rise to the surface, my skin stretched. Tight. Hot. Ready at any given moment to snap, to slingshot myself into the fray around me and do whatever damage I can. Spike had promised me, promised me, he wouldn't let me do anything I'd regret.

And this time, I choose to believe him.

Sending out one quick, urgent plea toward my vampire, a silent hope that he can help me handle this, I let the intoxicating, dizzying blood lust take over and leap toward the offending soldier, sprinting full tilt, hurling myself into the air and crashing into him. I knock him to the ground, arms closing vice-like around his waist as the bow drops to the floor and I hear the air leave his lungs in a whoosh. We roll several feet along the dirty, rocky tunnel floor from the impact, coming to a stop with me on top. The force of the impact has knocked him out, his eyes are shut, breathing ragged. I grab for the front of his uniform twist my fingers into it and yank his upper body up off the ground. Pulling my bloodied fist back with the intension of letting it fly, of slamming my knuckles full force into the bridge of his nose. Needing to hear the cracking of bone beneath my hand.

And then I stop. The desire for his blood tempering, quieting a little as I stare down at him. A soothing trickle, silky and warm, shimmies its way down my spine and my eyes widen as the violent, red-tinged haze lifts and I realize I've already done enough. That he's lying on the ground beneath me, unconscious, no longer able to come after me. Or Spike. And with a small, breathy noise, I let go of the soldier and leap back to my feet, whip my head around.

I'm not surprised to see him standing there again, the limp, unconscious bodies of the of the two soldiers he'd been grappling with before in a pile at his feet, the cat-like, gleaming eyes of his demon gazing at me evenly.

He gives me a small, appreciative smile. A short nod.

I nod back.

And an icy kind of acceptance settles over me. A weird kind of recognition, or maybe of understanding. It feels wild and frenzied and calm all at the same time. And things suddenly seem incredibly clear, incredibly easy. I turn from Spike in time to catch another soldier by the barrel of his gun, grab it, pluck it away from him and throw a hard jab into his jaw.

The fight gets easier.

Every time my hand connects with one of their jaws, a strip of their bare skin. Every time my leg shoots out and catches one of them in the back, or the chest, or the knee.

It's rough, and powerful, and dark.

But not out of control.

I'm still entirely I control. It's maybe the one thing I'd never expected, or anticipated. And I don't know how much of this control is mine, and how much of it is Spike's. I'm not even sure it matters. As I leap and spin, throwing punches. Arcing kicks. When I wrench a particularly heavy rifle out of one of the soldier's hands, spin it around and use the butt to knock him out. Never once am I not in control. I'm not mindless. I'm not a killing machine. I'm just…raw. Unfettered. More commanding and more sure of myself in this moment, this fight, than I think I've ever been before. Tapped into the darkest, most secret source of my Slayer's power. Accepting it. Embracing it.

I don't think I'll ever be able to come back from this, but I also think that that might be okay.

Once the last of the soldiers in front of me has been dealt with, the ten or so of them scattered, sprawled out haphazardly throughout the dirty, damp floor, I take a moment. Pause. Scan the area.

On the other side of the tunnel, Spike's still being attacked.

I whirl around, rocketing back across the tunnel toward the vampire, where he's doing his best to take on the remaining soldiers. I count them as I run, three fighting with him, two more preparing to raise their weapons. I grab one of them by the shoulders and yank him away from Spike, tossing him back onto the ground, spinning around to help him with the next one when suddenly there's a loud shout.

"Freeze!"

I don't know what it is about that word, or about hearing it the way it's just been bellowed. Even me, being the Slayer and Spike being a vampire, even in the middle of a fight. We freeze, all of us on instinct, turning, glancing back toward the opening of the tunnel. A dozen or so more soldiers, dressed all in black tactical gear, guns raised and pointed at us.

I'm _really_ getting tired of the weapons being pointed at my vampire.

"Oh, you've got to be joking," Spike growls, reading my mind as he casts a long glance my way. "There're more of 'em?"

I shrug, willing to continue the fight if I have to. I fall into a combat stance, preparing to continue the fight.

"No, no," Riley shouts suddenly, jarring me. I'd literally forgotten he'd been here too. I turn toward the sound of his voice, spot him leaning back against the tunnel wall. Lip split, nose bleeding, dirt smeared across his cheek. He's cradling his left arm against his chest, breathing ragged. He looks pretty banged up. More than a little exhausted. All in all, the fight's probably only lasted about ten minutes. "They're with me."

That has me pausing, Spike and I turning to exchange a furtive look before turning back toward the all-black clad men and women standing in front of us, their guns trained not on us, but on the remaining ex-Initiative soldiers. They're with him, so they're with us. Normally, I might have questioned that a little more I think but right now…right now I don't have the energy.

So instead of questioning, or arguing, or doing any of the things I might normally do, I let my shoulders relax, and say flatly, "Okay then." I turn to look back at Riley. "And who are they?"

"My team," he says matter of factly, giving me a short, slightly pained smile as he pushes himself off the wall. Nodding at my wide-eyed expression. "You didn't let me get to that part earlier. I was given authorization to take these guys into custody. Just needed a little backup. Or…" he trails off, glancing around the tunnel floor, to the twenty-odd soldiers scattered across the stone, each and every one of them out cold. He frowns, considering. "I thought I needed backup, anyway."

"No, good," I say quickly, turning back to glance at his "team" and offering them a thankful little smile. I spot Graham among them and wave, feeling bizarrely awkward when he nods cordially in response. "Backup, good." Then I turn to look at my vampire, my shoulders sagging. "Tired now."

And I am. So, _so_ tired now. Like all the fight and adrenaline has drained from my body, leaving me wholly, completely exhausted. Not just physically, but mentally. Emotionally. Worn down from the fight and the demon and the connection and Mom… _Mom_.

God, has this all really been one day?

I watch out of the corner of my eye as Riley crosses to Graham, begins explaining to him what's happened, what we've found out, while the other members of his team fan out around us. A few them step around Spike, herding the soldiers standing in front of him, while the rest set to work forming a perimeter around the unconscious men on the ground.

We step back to allow them space, slipping toward the corner of the tunnel, watching them maneuver around the space. Hurried, but methodical. Riley occasionally turning from his conversation with Graham to bark an order, or ask a question.

Beside me, Spike slips his arm around my waist. Leans close to my ear to whisper, "How's the arm?"

I don't turn to look at him. Just lean into his shoulder, staring unseeingly out into the sea of olive green and black. "I'll live."

My eyes fall one more time to the still form of Smith. Lying on the ground, on his back, eyes wide open. Glazing over and empty as he stares up at the ceiling. Everyone else has begun to stir. Most of the other soldiers had only been knocked out, and they're moving now, groaning sounding from every corner of the tunnel. Most of them are moving.

But not Smith.

He hasn't moved.

Biting down on my lip, the lusty, heady high from the fight starts to fade as I stare across at his pale face. I watch as one of Riley's team members, a tall, gorgeous girl with dark hair and bright eyes, is directed over to Smith's side. I watch as she crouches down beside him, leans over his face, presses the pads of her fingertips into the hollow of his throat.

I already know what she's going to say. Even if I couldn't see her from here, read her lips as clear as day. Even if I couldn't _hear_ her.

 _No pulse._

Sensing my uneasiness, Spike sighs. Uses his grip on my waist to tug me fully into the circle of his arms. Folding me into his body, one hand coming to press my head down into his chest, shielding my eyes. "Buffy, luv."

"Don't," I whisper against him, a bright, hot burning threatening to fill my eyes. I don't think they're tears. Maybe just burning from how insanely tired I've just realized I am. I don't know. What I do know is that I want to get out of here. Let Riley and his team figure the rest of all this out, sort through the files. At this point I don't even care what they'd been trying to do, or why they'd been trying to do it. I just want to get _out_ of here. "Can we just go?"

Spike threads his hand deeper into my hair, and I feel him nod.

Dawn and Giles disappear around the corner, headed back into the ICU just as Spike comes back into the hospital waiting room, sinking down into the chair beside mine. He shifts his eyes down to my arm, eyeing the blood stained bandage wrapped around it. Then he sighs, tilting his head to the side as his eyes find mine. "How you feelin'?"

I know he isn't asking about the arm. He isn't asking about how I feel _physically_ at all. Which irritates me, for whatever reason. Maybe because I know he already knows how I'm feeling so I'm not sure why he's trying to make me talk about it. Maybe because I'm not ready to talk about it.

"Tiny headache," I tell him, shrugging noncommittally. "Kinda thirsty. But I don't think I'm gonna lose the arm, so..."

When he says my name next, he sighs it. Sounding tired. "Buffy."

"How'd the grand tour go?" I ask, changing the subject. After getting me out of the tunnels and back to the hospital, filling Giles and a very frightened looking Dawn in on everything that Had happened, the two of them had left my little sister and I to here to get my arm looked at and had disappeared back into the tunnels in an attempt to lead Riley and his team back to the makeshift lab we'd found.

They'd needed evidence to bring back to the government.

Spike keeps his eyes on my face, looking like he's half expecting me to burst into tears at any moment. "Your shining white knight of an ex is downloadin' the files as we speak," he tells me simply. "Now, how're you feelin'?"

"Why are you even asking?"

"C'mon, luv," he coaxes me gently, angling his shoulders closer to mine, blocking us in from prying eyes on the other side of the waiting room. He sighs, reaching up impulsively to tuck a loose strand of hair back away from my face. "You're gonna have to talk about it sooner or later."

I know that. I'd just been banking on later. Much, much later. But I recognize the look on my vampire's face, know this isn't one of things that he'll give up on and let go once I refuse him enough times. That isn't exactly Spike's style. Never has been.

So I sigh, pursing my lips and nodding my head. I look up again, blinking suddenly wet eyes as I lower my voice and whisper, "I killed somebody."

Spike nods his head once. "I know."

I stare back at him for a long moment before I finally admit, "I thought I'd feel worse."

Because that, to me, is the real issue. Not so much that I killed a human, though that definitely has its own level of ishiness I have yet to really _deal_ with. It's more that I'm so hugely bothered by the fact that I'm not as bothered as I feel like I should be. That I don't feel as awful or wholly, hugely racked with guilt as I should. I took a life, a human life, and mostly all I feel is relieved. Relieved that this is over, relieved that a man who'd been killing people is dead.

I'm ashamed that I feel relieved.

I'd thought that I'd feel worse.

"I know that, too," Spike tells me sweetly, his voice very soft. An easy, gentle roll of warmth moving between us, over me in little lapping waves as he reaches out and runs the back of his knuckles along my arm. "But it was chaos down there," he assures me, his knuckles cool and smooth as he continues to brush them back and forth over my forearm. "You did what you had to, and you know as well as I do it could'a been a lot worse. You did good, pet."

I nod thoughtfully, thinking that over for a minute before I tell him quietly, "You helped."

He smiles at me, eyes twinkling a little, lips soft. "You _let_ me."

"I wish I would've let you earlier," I whisper, tearing my gaze away from his, focusing down on the tile floor. Wondering what all Riley and his team are dealing with down there now. What all they're finding. Hating him a little bit for not telling us sooner that he'd had backup coming. Not that it would have made things end differently with Smith, because no, it wouldn't have.

In the end, I'd have done the same thing to anyone who'd threatened Spike the way he had. And in the end, it's probably better. Better that it had been him.

"Plenty more chances, I'm sure," Spike says, his eyes trailing away from my face, over my collar bone and shoulder, then on down to the bloodied bandage over my arm. He frowns deeply, a flush of heated irritation making its way across the bridge between us as the muscle in his jaw clenches. "And _that_ was bloody stupid of you." He brushes his thumb beneath it. "Still can't believe you did it. Knew you were thinkin' about it, but I didn't think you'd actually be so sodding thick."

I narrow my eyes at him, a rush of irritation flowing off of me and back toward him now at the tone in his voice.

"Is this the part where you get to be all jaw clenchy and mad and act like you wouldn't have done the exact same thing?" I ask derisively. "Because if it is, I get to go first." He raises his eyebrows and looks surprised, so I lean toward him, jabbing my index finger into his collar bone. "Don't think you're off the hook for that stunt you pulled earlier."

I don't clarify, but I don't need to. The expression that passes over his face now tells me he knows exactly what I'm talking about, which means he must have felt it, too. Must have known that something way, _way_ different had happened in that moment down there.

"Didn't do it on purpose," he says quietly, ducking his gaze. Sighing loudly, a long, unnecessary breath passing through his pursed lips as he shakes his head. "Still don't even know _how_ I did it. Still a whole bloody lot about this connection we don't know, pet. Spent the last three weeks so focused on finding those wankers we've sorta been takin' it all for granted."

We sit in silence for a little while. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Silent, side by side, just enjoying the quiet. Real quiet. The kind I don't think either of us have really had in weeks. At some point, my hand finds his. My fingers closing around the silver band on his ring finger and twisting it absently, in constant, slow half circles.

Finally, I sigh. Shift my eyes sideways up toward Spike's. "We're gonna have to deal with this, aren't we?"

"Mmhm," he purrs distractedly, his eyes down on my fingers, his wedding ring.

I shift over toward him, leaning my head down to rest against his shoulder, rubbing my cheek against the cool leather of his duster. My eyes suddenly growing heavy as I murmur, "Can it wait until tomorrow?"

Spike chuckles, his breath ruffling the hair at the crown of my head. "Mmhm."

Giles and Dawn come back around the corner then, Dawn with a smile on her face for the first time all day as she spots us. Mom must have been awake when she'd gone back this time. The nurse that had come out to get me earlier had found me immediately, told me how well she'd been doing when I'd come back into the waiting room the first time. Gushing about her vital signs, and how she's been able to tell the nurses her name, the date, who the President is. All good signs, apparently. All really good signs. She'd been kind and excited when she'd first started telling me, probably thinking that maybe I'd just stepped out to get something to eat until, she'd spotted the gash open on my arm.

Then she'd insisted on stitching it up for me.

I lift my head up off Spike's shoulder and return my little sister's smile, shifting my eyes up toward Giles who's looking just as relieved as Dawn is. Whether it's because of Mom or because of things with the whacked out ex-Initiative soldier experiments being pretty much over, I'm not sure. Don't think it matters.

Both are pretty damn good reasons to be relieved.

I nod warmly at the two of them, then glance back at my vampire, my hand still on top of his. There's a lot left unspoken between us right now, I think. Unspoken, but...there. Just because we haven't spoken out loud doesn't mean we haven't said it all. There's a lot left to deal with. After math that'll have to be cleaned up, one way or another. So many things I probably should say, and want to say.

And will say, eventually.

But right now, this is enough.

I weave my fingers through his and sigh, exhale through my nose and ask him, "You ready to go see Mom now?"


	49. Chapter 48

"Anythin' useful?" Spike asks me again, the same question he's asked me three times already in just the last hour as he shifts his gaze over toward mine.

He's painfully bored, I know. And frustrated. I can feel it, pulsing a steady from his seat beside me. He's not doing anything at all to hide it.

But neither am I.

"Nope," I say, my voice equally flat. I snap the book in front of me shut and set my elbow down hard on the research table. Sigh loudly. Prop my head up in my hand.

From the other side of the table, Giles glances up, eyeing me meaningfully from over the rims of his glasses in that flatly annoyed way he does when I'm doing something that bugs him but he doesn't want to say anything out loud. He's given me this look more than once since we've been sitting here. Probably because I'm the reason we're all sitting here, have been sitting here for the past 5 hours, digging through useless Council record after useless Council record and getting absolutely _nowhere_.

Not that the new information they've sent isn't giving us...new information. It totally is.

Just not the kind of new information that's much in the way of useful in helping us figure out whatever it is that had happened between us during the fight in the tunnels. What had happened with Smith. Who, it had turned out, had been one of the Initiative's original "higher ups". A commanding officer just above Professor Walsh. Or just under Professor Walsh? I'm still not sure I understand the hierarchy there. Riley had tried to explain it to me but I honestly hadn't been all that interested in hearing it. Though apparently he'd been a not so great guy, even then, and also apparently had been the one to initially give Walsh her marching orders. Not the official ones but, ya know, the ones that had eventually gotten more than half the Initiative killed.

Riley'd offered to share the results of their findings with us, the files they'd been able to get off the computer down in the makeshift lab, autopsy reports on the thirteen bodies they'd uncovered, but in the end I'd told him a big old thanks but no thanks. Just knowing that particular threat had been dealt with, that Spike and I could go back to living our normal, boring, vampire dusting, world saving lives had been enough for me.

 _God_ , it's been a long day.

Well, no, technically it's been a long _four_ days, but it's been an especially long day today.

We'd been able to bring Mom home from the hospital earlier in the evening. Finally, after two days in the ICU, and then two more days in a regular room under less strict observation, the doctors had given her the all clear. Clean bill of health, contingent on her coming back to check on the coil they'd placed in her brain every two weeks. She'd been more than ready to go.

And Spike and I had been more than ready to get back to work.

We'd taken shifts at the hospital the first two nights in the ICU, since only one of us could stay at a time. The first night had been mine, and he'd taken Dawn home. The second night, his. Once she'd been moved to the regular room, though, all three of us had set up camp there.

And as much as I'd appreciated Spike wanting to help, his restlessness hadn't been lost on me. After getting his first taste of true, unadulterated violence in well over a year, he'd been itching to get out again. To patrol.

And so had I.

I'd been totally looking forward to our first night back on patrol. Wanting to test things out, to really let loose and see exactly what I'd be capable of if I could tap back into that source of deep, primal power I'd barely just begun to touch in the tunnels. Spike and I'd been talking about it all day at the hospital, while sitting with a very impatient Mom, and waiting for the doctors to come and discharge her.

But now, instead of being out in the cemetery, I'm staring blankly down at the cover of the more or less secret Watcher's diary the Council had left for us, one we've been through more than once before, and starting to feel like my brain will turn to mush, trickle out my ears if I so much as I tilt my head a little too far one way or the other.

Again, not that I'm not way thankful to have access to records and documents that might actually provide us with more concrete, real answers, if not about the connection itself than at the very least about the Slayer and the vampire who'd been involved...I'd just really been looking forward to stretching and testing out my demon legs, so to speak. And we'd been so close, too. Had gotten Mom in bed, had made sure Dawn had something to eat, had made it halfway to the front door.

And then we'd gotten the call from Giles.

When we'd first approached my Watcher about the whole wig worthy, mind control incident in the tunnels, his first response had been to ask us if maybe we'd just imagined it, which had led us into an attempt at recreating it.

The kicker? We hadn't been able to. Which, ya know, did a lot for me in terms of starting to believe that Spike really had done it on accident, but not much for me in the way of figuring out how it could have even been possible. Once the two of us had successfully managed to convince Giles that it had in fact happened at all, he'd jumped immediately into research mode. Of course, we'd found out pretty quickly that even though the tomes and documents the Council had originally left behind for us to dig through had some valuable information, we weren't going to get a lot out of them other than what we'd already found out. They'd left us with a few books, the secret Watcher's diary of the Slayer who'd been killed, but not much else. So Giles had decided to put in an urgent request to the Council, asking them for further assistance, for anything else they might have on hand regarding the connection, or the Slayer and vamp pair. He'd asked Spike and I first this time, though, which I'd figured could be considered progress. The Council had responded by agreeing to ship over a few additional records they had on hand, putting up hardly nay fight at all. When I'd asked him what they'd said about sending them over, Giles had merely shrugged and said something about gift horses and how I shouldn't be "going about playing dentist".

Spike had thought they'd sent them because they were afraid of me, whereas Willow's take was that they'd done it in a bid to more helpful, maybe. I'd figured it might have been because what I'd said to them had actually made a difference.

Regardless of their motives, I'd spent the last several hours finding out the long, hard, ultra boring way that what they'd sent us is only going to be an eensy bit helpful.

So far, these records have given us a more concrete date, 1796, and a firmer idea on location, Rome.

They've also given us a name.

We'd already known the Slayer's name before this from her Watcher's diary, Flora, but these new references have given us insight into the vampire, as well.

From everything I've read so far, I've been able to gather that his name was Pietro, and that he'd been sired sometime between 1720 and 1780. Oh, and that Flora hadn't been the first Slayer he'd killed. It doesn't say how many others he might have faced, or killed, but the suggestion that there might have been more than one is very heavily implied.

It's something that majorly bothers Spike, though he hasn't come right out and said it yet.

But other than that, there isn't much to go on. We've spent the past five hours now buried up to our necks in dusty tomes and wrinkled Watcher's diaries, reading and re-reading everything we've been able to get our hands on, and we still don't know…well, anything really. Not much more than we'd known to begin with, besides what we've learned about Pietro. And even then, the new information we've been able to get on the vamp is spotty at best. By piecing together bits and pieces from Flora's Watcher's diary and the additional Council records, we now know about as much about Flora's vampire as we'd known about Spike the first time we'd looked into him.

"So…can we take a brain break and re-cap?" I ask, head still propped in my hand. I frown, wrinkling my nose as I scan the unopened books and documents across the table. "I have a research headache."

"Me, too," Spike echoes lazily, leaning back, drumming his fingers on the table top.

I shift my eyes back toward him again, perking a brow. "Your headache and my headache are the same headache."

His fingers stop drumming, and he arches a brow to mirror mine. "Still have one, don't I?"

I roll my eyes at him but can't keep my lips from twitching up one side Glancing at the redhead sitting across from me, I sigh and say, "Alright, list girl. What do we know?"

"Uh," Willow sits up a little straighter, clears her throat as her wide, green eyes scan the bullet points on the notepad in front of her. "We know the vamp's name was Pietro. We know he was sired…" she trails off, nibbling on her lip at the vague time table, "… _sometime_ in the early to mid-1700s. In Italy. And we know he killed at least one Slayer, Flora." Then she pauses, glances up, her eyes landing first on Spike and then on me. "But possibly another before her."

Beside me, Spike's jaw clenches and a wave of possessive jealousy settles on my shoulders again, the same way it had the first time we'd discussed that last part. I'd even been expecting it this time and somehow it still hits me hard enough to nearly knock the wind from my lungs. I cast a sidelong glance at him, but he won't meet my eyes.

I frown at him but don't push it, instead turning back toward Willow to sum up. "So, basically we know this guy was a potentially old-ish vampire that was especially violent and impulsive."

 _And Slayer-obsessed_ , I add mentally, shifting a furtive glance toward my own impulsive vampire.

It's not insignificant. We all know it's not. But none of us seem to want to touch it with a ten foot pole, for whatever reason.

" _And_ Italian," Willow adds, tapping her pen against her notepad for emphasis.

Spike's jaw relaxes, as he smirks appreciatively across the table at her, though the possessive grip he has on the connection doesn't let up. "Which was summed up by the violent and impulsive bit."

He's being all deflecty, which is fine. For now. But I have a feeling this is something we're going to have to talk about, and probably sooner rather than later.

"So in other words," I sigh, leaning my head back down into my hands, "we know nothing."

"No, Buff, we don't know _nothing_ ," Willow insists weakly, gesturing toward her small bullet point list again for emphasis.

"Nothing that helps us, or tells us any more about how this connection works or what it's supposed to mean." I pull my head out of my hands again and gesture toward the array of books and papers scattered across the table. "All we have a-are…dusty old Watcher theories and a demon connection that has elements _we_ apparently have no idea how to control." I emphasize the word with a finger wiggle between me and my vampire.

And the space around the research table goes silent.

"Well, we have a name and a date now," Giles says slowly, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. "That's hardly nothing, Buffy, and it's certainly more than we had before."

"But what good does any of that actually do us?" I press him, putting my hand on the Watcher's diary in front of me and shoving it forward. "We had Flora's name and some dates before this and _those_ hadn't been real big with the mystery solving."

"I'm with the Slayer," Spike says on a sigh, rolling his shoulders back. "There's nothin' in any of this that's gonna tell us anythin' we don't already bloody know."

Giles frowns at him, then at me. Frustrated that we're being so impatient, probably. "We've only been at this for a little while. Research of this nature takes time." He reaches up to remove his glasses, setting them down on top of the text in front of him. "We may have to read through everything more than once."

 _Ugh._

I make a face at my Watcher. "Are you sure there isn't someone I could just…beat up for information?"

Spike chuckles, and I feel it when a little of the tightness in his shoulders releases.

"Buffy," Giles says, bringing my attention back to him. His focus is down on the table. Expression thoughtful, brow furrowed. "I appreciate your desire to take action here but unfortunately, right now there isn't much going on that _requires_ action. If you want information on the connection, the best way to get it is to start here."

I watch as he places his glasses back on his face and nods toward me, pushes himself to his feet, reaching down to pick up the record he'd been flipping through and beginning to pace a little as he turns the page and begins reading again.

"Giles is right, Buff," Willow tells me, setting her paper and pen down on the research table. She offers me an enthusiastic smile, and a nod. "I'm sure…something will eventually turn up."

I look at my friend and offer her a small smile in response. I'm glad she's here. I appreciate that she's here. I appreciate that she's here and she's helping instead of at the house watching movies with Tara and Dawn. I appreciate it.

But it doesn't change the fact that having another pair of eyes to read isn't going to change what the papers in front of us say.

"How, Will?" I ask her, slumping down on the bench, shoulders sagging. "The Council sent us everything they had on the connection, right? Which means _this_ is it." I point down to the diary in front of me. "If there isn't anything here, there's nothing else we can do. Nobody else we can ask." I sigh, reaching my hands up to scrub them down over my tired, aching eyes. "Everyone that was involved the first time is either dead, or—"

"Alive," Giles says suddenly, cutting me off, bringing all three of our heads snapping around to look at him. His eyes are down, wide, focused on the page he's just turned. I turn and exchange a look with Spike before swiveling all the way around on the bench to look at the Watcher.

I frown at him, waiting for him to expand on that.

Because that…is kind of a big deal.

When he doesn't move to say anything, just continues staring down at the page in his hands, reading and re-reading something that I can't see I feel my fingers twitch with impatience. "Giles?" I press, my voice loud.

He jumps, my voice jarring him, his eyes wide when he looks up at me again. "Uh, sorry. Pietro, I mean." He shakes his head, looks back down at the text in front of him. "He's still alive. Or, undead, I suppose would be the more accurate term."

I'm not sure why I'm so completely surprised. It isn't like the Council had told us he'd been dusted. They'd said he killed his Slayer during the claim but not that he'd been taken out afterwards.

Had I just assumed?

Beside me, all the tension that had melted a moment ago is back. Heavier than before. I don't have a chance to turn to Spike and try and relax him, I'm too busy trying to make sense of what Giles is telling me now.

"According to the Council records here, his defeat was never recorded by another Watcher. I'm surprised…" he trails off, eyes meeting mind from over the rims of his glasses again. "I'd assumed he would have been taken out by the next Slayer in line."

"Well, how do we know he wasn't?" I ask, my brain already whirling, thoughts jumbling as I try and figure out what this might mean. If it means anything. "Maybe another Slayer dusted him and the Watcher just got lazy and forgot to write it down?"

Giles inclines his head to the side thoughtfully. "Unless that Slayer was you or Faith, then I highly doubt that's the case." He moves to set the record down on the research table. "According to these records, there've been sightings of him as recent as only five years ago."

"What?" I ask numbly, not because I don't understand but because I can't think of anything else to say. Beside me, Spike rumbles low in his throat. A wave of anxiety working its way down my back.

Giles just nods and steps backward, stuffing one hand into his pocket and saying, "The last recorded sighting was in Naples."

Naples.

"Florida seems like kind of a weird choice," I mutter half under my breath.

Spike raises a brow at me, still tense. "Think he means _Italy_ , sweet."

I turn to him, blinking. Feeling silly. "Oh." That makes more sense. "So he's still out there."

My brain is jumping ahead already. In my mind, I'm already on a plane, halfway around the world to search out this vampire. The only thing left to directly connect us to the connection. Because we have to go after him. We have to find him, we have to ask.

We have to…

"How do we know these sightings are even good?" Spike asks suddenly, drawing me out of my thoughts and back to the present. His eyes are on Giles, not me. "How accurate are the Council of Wankers' records anyway?"

"Spike's right," Willow adds, looking at me, shrugging. "Anyone else remember them telling us Drusilla was already all dusty?"

"Aside from that," Spike adds on a growl, glancing back toward Giles. "A bloody lot can happen in five years. Bloke could be dust by now."

"But…I mean, five years…" I trail off, eyes searching his for assurance. "That's nothing. He's already over two hundred years old. If a Slayer hasn't gotten to him yet, it's a pretty safe bet he's still around, right?" The last half of my question is directed toward Giles.

He eyes Spike, then me. Nods thoughtfully. "I'd say that's a fair assumption, yes."

"Well, we have to go find him," I say, voicing my thoughts out loud, spinning around on the bench and getting to my feet. "Right?" I look to Spike. "I mean, if we can go straight to the source why wouldn't we?"

He gets to his feet too, but his only response is to say my name. Low, commanding. Suddenly authoritative. "Buffy."

Heat spreads through my cheeks as I turn to stare at him. Trying to read the weird expression on his face, trying to understand where the rush of exasperation is coming from now.

"What?" I demand.

Spike shakes his head. "'S not a good idea, luv."

"Why?" I demand again, folding my arms over my chest.

The vampire doesn't look like he'd expected me to ask. Planting his hands on his hips, he rocks back on his heels, widens his eyes. "Well, because…" he trails off, pursing his lips. Then, suddenly like the idea's just occurred to him. "It's a wild bloody goose chase, that's why. Blighter might not even _be_ in Europe anymore."

"Well, if he's not, he's not," I tell him simply, brow furrowing. "I don't see why it hurts to try."

His eyes flash, and the muscle in his jaw tics. "How bout it bein' a waste of time, for one. Can't be gallivantin' off and leaving the Hellmouth unprotected, or what all." He pauses, turns toward my Watcher. "Giles, tell her I'm right."

Oh, come _on_. I gape at him.

"She's your wife, Spike." To our left, my Watcher just clears his throat, looking completely uncomfortable. He pulls his glasses off his face, polishing them hurriedly on the hem of his sweater. "I hardly think it's my place to—"

"Oh, brilliant," Spike groans, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. Jaw clenched. _"_ _Now_ you back off?"

"No," I say, eyes narrowed on my vampire. "It's okay, Giles." I turn back toward him, planting my hands on my hips and raising my brows. "I wanna hear what you think."

"I think…if you're determined to get more answers about the connection itself, then this might be your best option."

I whip back around toward Spike. "See?"

He glares at me. Then at Giles.

Who then grudgingly adds, "Of course, there's no way to be certain there would still be any residual effects left over from the connection, or from the failed claim. There's also no guarantee Pietro will be… _receptive_ to your questioning."

The way he says it makes me feel like Pietro not being _receptive_ to my questions might be the least of my worries. But that isn't what I'm concerned about right now. That's a bridge I'll be all about crossing once I get to it.

But I have to _get_ to it first.

So I look toward Giles and square my shoulders. "But there's a _chance_ ," I press him purposefully.

My Watcher sighs, placing his glasses back on his nose and nodding. "There's a chance."

I whirl around, dodging out of the way of a wild, ill-timed blow from the vampire charging at me. He snarls wildly, lunging for me again. I slam my fist into his jaw, leaving a smarting, sizzling imprint of a cross there from my Christmas present and sending him sprawling backward. I shake my hair out of my face, watching as the vampire snarls at me again and leaps back to his feet. Hurls himself blindly at me. Spinning easily out of his way, I reach down into my waist band and grip my stake, shove it through the vamp's back and straight into his heart. Watching him explode into a million pieces in front of me.

Finding Spike through the cloud of dust, I say, "I don't want to argue about this anymore."

"Who's arguin'?" He asks me blithely, wrestling his vamp down to the ground, catching the stake I toss him much too gracefully, twirling it once between long, deft fingers before plunging it down. He grits his teeth, watching the fresh cloud of dust exploding up around him as he frowns at me. "Just pointin' out some things you don't seem to be able to get through that impossibly thick skull of yours, is all."

I narrow my eyes at him, catching my stake again as he pitches it back to me and shoving it back down into the back of my waist band.

Who's arguing? _Please_. We are. We've been arguing about it since leaving the Magic Box last night. On the way home, once we'd gotten home, after we'd checked on Mom. In our room, through the night. Sure, we'd taken a…break or two from the arguing. But we'd been right back at it this morning. On and off, all through the day today, and again throughout patrol tonight.

And right now.

Spike's come up with excuse after excuse, all based on telling me exactly why trying to track down this Pietro vamp is a bad idea. Funny though, because none of the excuses he's come out with have really rang true. They've all been decent enough reasons. Valid, maybe. But none of them have been the real reason. I've been biding my time waiting for the real reason. I've tried goading him, but nothing. He still hasn't come right out and said what it is that's bothering him so much about the idea of going.

Other than the whole flying, which yeah, could be difficult.

But not a good reason not to _try_.

"Was I the only one listening last night?" I ask him petulantly, planting my feet and squaring my shoulders, watching him brush the dust off his hands.

Azure eyes flick up toward mine, bringing with them a sharp pang of aggravation that strikes me hard in the chest as it threads between us. He quirks a brow, lashes fluttering and says, "Just about to ask you the same thing."

"You heard Giles," I tell him simply, folding my arms tightly across my chest. Searching his face, lowering my voice to a quiet murmur. Doing what I can to calm the harsh flare of heat between us. "This could be our best chance. Our only chance."

He's not letting me soothe the connection, though. I can feel him battling back, shaking his head even as he crosses to me. "Yeah, I heard that part," he tells me, lowering his own voice. "I also heard the rest of it. The part _before_ we got to the bit you're so bloody fixated on."

 _Huh?_ "What are you talking about?"

Spike looks at me like I'm an idiot and my chest tightens suddenly.

"Oh, bloody hell. I'm _talkin'_ about what those Council records had to say about this Pietro bloke," he says heatedly, a fresh flare of anger rocketing through the connection and slamming into me with a surprising amount of force. He backs down immediately, his eyes softening a little, but still angry as he scoffs and shakes his head. "Sounds like a right nasty piece of work, if you ask me."

I stand there staring at him for a minute, because this is it. The _real_ reason. I can tell by the way he's said it, and the way he's not meeting my eyes now. So…wait, what? That's what he's been worried about? _That's_ why he's been arguing with me so damn hard about this? He's worried about this vamp's supposed reputation?

I blink at him. Then, "You're kidding, right?"

"Look," Spike says heatedly, one hand braced on his hip and the other pointing toward me, "I know a right bit more about this than you do, alright? If he's still around, he's old. Which means he's smart. We already know he's a fighter." His eyes flash as he leans in and lowers his voice. "And if he's taken out Slayers, that means he's _good_."

He's talking to me about this like he wants me to be scared. Which makes no sense. None.

I frown at him, still not getting it. Unfolding my arms and throwing them up in exasperation. "Spike, he's just one vamp."

"So was I," he snaps, and it suddenly gets all clicky for me, everything snapping together to form a bigger picture. That he's made the comparison and knows how significant it is. That he'd come close to ending my life on more than one occasion. Would have, if he hadn't already dimly realized at the time that he might have had feelings for me. Or not realized so much as…felt. He's comparing this vamp to himself, and that's what's worrying him.

Softening instantly, my arms falling down to my sides as I say softly, "Okay." Then again, more firmly, "Okay, but, still…it's not like I'm going after him alone." I step toward him. "It'd be two against one—"

"I can bloody well promise you it won't be just the one," he says forcefully, glittering, navy blue eyes burning down into mine. "We're not talkin' about some Sunnydale fledgling, pet. Vamps that live that long…they don't manage to do it by goin' it on their lonesome." He shakes his head, lowers his voice. "Trust me. If he's not dust, he's not alone."

I have to admit, he has a point. And if anyone would know, he would.

I guess I hadn't really thought about that.

"You're afraid it'll come down to a fight," I say quietly, eyes locked on his.

It isn't a question.

"Christ, of course I am," he says, exasperated. Reaching for my shoulders, like he has to anchor me down in order to get this point across. "He's a Slayer killer, Buffy. Know this bloke's type, don't I? Bloody hell, I _am_ his type."

And there it is.

I sigh, shoulders relaxing beneath his hands as I look up at him. His eyes bright, midnight blue flecked with swirls of glossy gold.

"Since when do you shy away from a fight?" I ask him evenly.

"Since when do you go lookin' for one?" He echoes back to me, his voice just as even.

"I'm _not_ ," I insist, pulling out of his embrace so I can focus on my point, get out what it is I need to say. "I just think we owe it to ourselves to find out whatever we can, as much as we can." I widen my eyes meaningfully. "From _whoever_ we can."

"And I get that," Spike tells me, reaching a hand up to run it through his platinum curls. Glances away from me. Then back up. "But I _just_ got you, sweetheart."

My brow furrows and I lean away from him. "In case you haven't noticed, Spike, you've _had_ me for months."

He makes a face at me, shakes his head. "After everythin' we've been through the past six months. Your mum, and the chip, and those sodding tin soldiers. I just got _you_ , without the buggering rest of it. We've been out of the woods for all of five bloody days." He sighs, exhaling through his nose. "Forgive me if I'm not in a hurry to go sprintin' back in just yet."

And I understand now. He doesn't want to take the risk, doesn't want to dive right back in to another big, huge _thing_. Not after we've just had one big, huge thing after another lately. I get that.

I do.

But I know we need to find out more about our connection. We need to try and understand it, to understand whatever it is Spike had managed to do down there in the tunnels with me. How he'd been able to force his will on me without ever having to say anything out loud. If he can do it, I probably can to.

And we need to know how it works so that it doesn't happen like that again. Accidentally, uncontrollably.

I think he knows that, too.

"This could be our best chance," I tell him on a soft sigh. "And if there's even a _small_ chance we could get the answers we're looking for…"

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, rolling his eyes at me. "So, what now? We wanna run home and pack, jet off to sodding Europe on the next plane out of LAX?"

"We don't have to go on the next plane out," I say, shrugging. "We can do the Napa thing first."

"Buffy," he warns me, but it isn't harsh. It's sweet, his voice low.

And his eyes are sparkling.

My lips quirk slightly at the corners because I know I'm winning. "That was a joke."

"Oh." Spike frowns, lips forming a full pout. "So, Napa's out then?"

"My point is," I say purposefully, drawing the words out and raising both my eyebrows. "We don't have to go right away. We don't even have to _decide_ if we're going tonight. I do want to go, though. I think we _need_ to go. But, this isn't just about me." I bite down thoughtfully on the inside of my cheek and purse my lips. "Kinda think we're supposed to be on the same page, here. So…if you're not on board, you're not on board."

He thinks about that for a minute as we stare at each other. Eyeing one another, letting the weight of both our arguments settle between us. Finally, my vampire sighs. A stream of needless air exhaled through his nose as he looks at me, shakes his head. His lips curving up on one side.

"I'll do anythin' you ask me to," Spike tells me, his voice soft and honeyed, and just the barest hint of exasperation in it. Like he's frustrated by the truth of his words even as he says them. "Follow you to the end of the bloody Earth if that's what you wanted. You know that."

And I do. I know it. Can feel it in every inch of my body, the tiniest, itty bittiest particles of my being. I know it in the tingling across my skin, the hum in my blood, the warmth emanating from my very bones. I know it in a deep, dark place inside of me. Dark, and secret. Primal and powerful. The part of me that had been revealed the night I'd made the decision to drink from Dracula's wrist. The part of me that had only made itself truly known since I'd connected myself to Spike.

The part of me I'm only now really beginning to understand. To want. To accept.

What had happened the other night, down in the tunnels below the hospital. That had been the first step. Accepting this. The connection in all of its dark and twisty glory, the parts that are good and the parts that are bad. The parts that are scary. By choosing to embrace it that night, I'd accepted all of it. Not just the parts of it I understand, or the parts that I feel okay about. Accepting that there are two sides to it, and that both sides, the light and dark, are important. Necessary.

That's what had happened in the tunnels, when I'd made the choice to kill Smith. When I'd chosen Spike. When I'd let the demon, the blood lust, completely take over for that split second, for all the seconds after that…and it had been okay. The world hadn't ended. I hadn't lost control. I hadn't turned into a psycho Slayer, or a serial killer, or an unstoppable killing machine. None of the things I'd been so terrified of had happened. Because I'd trusted Spike.

I'd trusted him to help me like he'd said he would. I'd asked him for help like I'd promised I would. I hadn't shouldered it all on my own because I'd recognized in that moment that I didn't have to.

And in that same moment, I'd accepted the darkness. Completely embraced the blood lust, that part of my demon for exactly what it is. The first part of me that had recognized its match in Spike. That had called to him. Is still calling to him, even now as we stand here staring at each other.

It might be true that no other Slayer has ever felt their demon as acutely as I feel mine.

I lean into Spike. He lowers his chin to rest against the top of my head, and I press my cheek against his chest, to the place I'd hear his heart beating if it were. Our fingers meet and weave together.

But no other Slayer has ever had this, either.

"Yeah," I whisper, nuzzling into the soft cotton of his t-shirt, flooding the bridge between us with warmth, pushing it into him physically until the tension that had been rolling off him in waves is numbed. Until it's not much more than a gentle vibration. "I know that."

Accepting my demon, accepting Spike's help. Accepting the weight of what it means for us to truly be partners. That had only been the first step. Just the first step in a series of steps. Of hard, terrifying, potentially painful steps.

That I now know I'll never have to take alone.


End file.
